


Heir to Intelligence

by FourCornersHolmes



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All the Crossover, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Crossover, Cuddling, F/M, Family, Gen, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, It happens "off-screen" but..., John is a Good Friend, Kissing, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, On Hiatus, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Potential for PTSD, Protective Mycroft, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scotty is my OFC, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slightly dark and depressing but not for long, Who is Scotty Hudson?, parentlock?, ummm....
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: Scotty Hudson is a girl adrift, alone in the world save for an unlikely penpal she met almost by accident through an armed forces letter exchange. There's just one problem: she wrote a letter to "Any American Soldier", she got a letter BACK from a British soldier. A British soldier named John Watson. Desperate for a new life, a chance at living at all, Scotty runs away from home and takes off across state and international borders, making a lengthy, interesting sojourn from Seattle, Washington, to metropolitan London. London was home to her family for years, and she might just still HAVE some family left willing to make room for her in their lives. The question is, who EXACTLY does Scotty Hudson (born Mariam Scott Raileigh Hudson) actually belong to? :: ON HIATUS ::





	1. Seattle: Scotty Hudson

**Author's Note:**

> So, I realize in hindsight, that I may have punned with the title of this work. I swear, I didn't mean to. 
> 
> I'm also dedicating this in part to Laura Hansen-Farnsworth over at the 00Q - James Bond/Q Addicted FB group, she expressed some interest in this weird little cross-over foray.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Scotty Hudson. Fifteen, lonely, and desperate for a friend. She's about to get her wish, in a very unusual way. Thank God for letter exchange programs and friendly, if slightly puzzled British soldiers.

* * *

Scotty had a picture of a man whose name she didn’t know. It was a simple picture, a quick snap-shot taken on a cell-phone camera, good quality. She set the picture down and pick up the letter that accompanied it. She had joined a pen-pal program that connected civilians with soldiers overseas and this was the first letter she had received. Honestly, she wasn’t expecting much, since she had only sent _her_ letter a few months ago. She figured that her letter had gotten lost or sent to someone who didn’t want to write back. It was no sweat off her back, but having a friend would be nice. She didn’t have friends, she wasn’t that kind of person. So if she was hoping for even a long-distance friend, she might be forgiven for a bit of foolish hope. Unfolding the paper, she read a handwritten letter. It was nice handwriting, but kind of chicken-scratchy. Like her dad’s handwriting. Her dad was a police detective. Or…had been a police detective. Before he got sick, before cancer took him away from Scotty way, _way_ too early. That was another reason she wanted friends. So, with a letter in hand, she started to read, hoping for good news.

**Dear Stranger,**

**I wonder if your letter wasn’t intended for someone else, got lost, and reached _me_ instead. Perhaps a crossover between our post and yours? Never mind, I enjoy getting letters, and with no family who cares enough to write (unless they need something from me), I was thrilled to get your mail. My unit isn’t formally part of the letter-exchange program, but I would like to keep getting letters from you. See, you wrote to “Any American Soldier”, and your letter got dropped on the desk of a _British_ soldier instead. **

**I hope you don’t mind too much, please write back if you would like to, I don’t have much company and, like I said, no family to speak of. As much my fault as theirs, another story for another time. I understand it’s traditional to send a picture with a letter, so…here’s me. Don’t mind the ugly mug, I was born with it.**

**So anyway, my name. My name is John Watson. John H. Watson, actually. That’s the whole of it. I hate my middle name, so I’ll keep that to myself. It’s kind of…embarrassing? A thirty-something grown man ashamed of his own name. Funny thing, that. I’m thirty-three years old, male (obviously, but some people don’t get the idea), single, bisexual orientation but hetero in practice. The Army doesn’t like queers much, unfortunately, so I have to keep that bit quiet or get in trouble. I really hope you’re not one of those folks who condemn the likes of me, burn this letter if you are. I like to get it in the open so I don’t have to worry later.**

 

**By the picture I shared, you can probably tell I’m a soldier, you wouldn’t get this letter otherwise, but the specifics are a bit more interesting. I’m a medic with the Royal Army Medical Corps, currently assigned to a unit posted in Afghanistan on the base in Bagram, so there’s a blend of my countrymen and your Yank boys and ladies. I’ve seen plenty of women in uniform over here, more than I expected. Brave bunch, them, especially in this shit-hole. I’m stationed over here with the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, 5 th Regiment, it’s not a boring job. The waiting is dreadful, though, and the food is appalling. If there’s one thing I miss from home, it’s a decent cuppa. Hell, I’d take a good cup of _coffee_ , but that doesn’t seem to exist either! You’re from the States, but you wouldn’t happen to have access to good quality tea, would you? I could sure use a good cup over here, a bit of home in Hell. **

**Before I joined the Army, I lived in England, in a tiny village in Richmondshire, that’s in North Yorkshire, called Hudswell. Go see if you can find that on a map of England for me, will you? It’s less than a speck, but it was home for a long time. Not a happy home, but it was home. I left when I was sixteen, struck out for my own and headed south to London, where I hoped to make my fortunes doing something useful. Anything, really. That’s how I found the Army, and they paid for my education. I went to medical school, and…well, the rest is a bit of history.**

**My da’s long in his grave, he can stay there and rot, my mam’s Lord knows where doing Christ knows what, and that’s fine, and my sister…I think she’s in rehab? I’m not sure, she won’t talk to me anymore after I tried to get her help the last time she called me slobbering drunk. See, addictions run in my family and they took my da, they took my mam, and my sister’s on her way to the bottom of the bottle like the rest of them. Got out while the getting was good, I suppose. Coward that I am, I’m clear across the far side of the civilized world getting shot at by morons in turbans with stolen weapons.**

**Suppose I should close this up, I just heard the sirens. Just a wounded call, no real danger, that’s a thing, though, so…yeah. Please write back soon? I like company, even in a letter.**

**Regards,**

**John H. Watson**

**Corporal (HM Royal Army)**

**Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, 5 th Regiment**

**Royal Army Medical Corps**

**Bagram Airfield**

**Bagram, Afghanistan**

 

Scotty finished reading the letter and picked up the picture again. So, he did have a name! John Watson was a handsome man, he really was. Older than Scotty by a bit, but she didn’t care. He looked like a nice man, the kind of person she would probably get along with if they ever got to meet each other. She thought it was kind of funny that her letter _had_ gotten lost, recovered, and sent to a Brit. She didn’t mind, though. It didn’t seem like he did either. Digging a sheet of clean paper out of her backpack, she started writing a letter to send back to him. She decided she should send him a picture in return and printed a picture from her Facebook profile, one that didn’t show the bruises, where she didn’t look scared.

 

**Dear Soldier,**

**Can I call you John? I don’t have many friends, or any friends, really. I thought my letter had gotten lost, but I guess not? You got my letter, so you know what I already wrote you, but…you should know one thing. It’s kind of important to me. You said you were…thirty-three? I’m fifteen. My name is Mariam Scott Raileigh Hudson. Dad used to call me Scotty, you can just call me that if you want to.**

**See, my dad was a police detective, worked in Homicide, but he died last year. Cancer took him. He was the only family I had that cared, and he’s gone. Mom died when I was ten, breast-cancer. I really, really want someone to talk to, even an older stranger will do. You can ignore a clingy teenager, I won’t be upset. Everyone else does, unless they’re yelling at me.**

**I’ll write back if you do? Please take care of yourself, don’t get shot.**

**I have to go, but I’ll write again. Take care, be careful.**

**Scotty**

**P.0. Box 221**

**1150 23RD AVE  
SEATTLE, WA 98122-4822**

 

After writing the letter, she folded it up, stuck it in an envelope with the picture, and dropped it in the mailbox as she left the library. She hoped he would write back. When she got home, she hid the picture and gave her completed homework to her foster-father. That night, Scotty avoided any beatings or encounters, but it was only a matter of time before her turn came again.

**:-:**

After those first letters, Scotty and John wrote to each other several times a week, sending and receiving stacks of letters at a time, and she confided in him about her situation. He prompted her to get help, to find someone she could trust locally and get help from them, but she didn’t know _who_ to trust. When she learned that he had Skype, she started calling him when she could do it safely, usually while she was out of the house and their timing synched up. On one of these phone-calls, he brought up an interesting point.

_“You know, love. If you were in London, I could help you out. Too bad you’re in Seattle.”_

            “You know, John, that’s enough.” She looked around the little study-room she had taken over, “I’ve got a friend. And your secret is safe. My foster doesn’t know about you.”

_“What if they_ did _know about me?”_

            “It wouldn’t be good. Don’t think about it, please? I get into enough trouble without them knowing I have a friend overseas.” She tapped her nose, “Please.”

            _“You need help, Scotty. You can’t keep telling me these things and sending me pictures of what happens to you and expect me to sit here and do absolutely_ nothing _!”_

“I’m sorry.” She put her head down, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry!”

_“It’s not_ you _I’m angry with, Scotty! It’s those bastards you live with!”_ He was legitimately furious, and she was so glad to be the thousands of miles separating them. She seemed to be very good at making people angry, that was a normal state for her. John apologized for scaring her and said he was going to go take a run, he had to calm down.

            _“Write me soon, will you? And send more of that tea you found, if you can get it.”_

“You liked that?”

            _“Best I’ve had since leaving home!”_

“I’ll buy some more the next time I visit that shop, then! I’m glad you approved of, you Brits have the pickiest taste with tea.” She rested her chin on her hands, “I’ll talk to you later, John, okay? Be safe.”

            _“You too, Scotty.”_ He hung up first, and she packed up her laptop and decided to go home. If she was any later, Gore would come looking for her and that would be bad enough. When she _got_ home, she retreated to her room right away after turning her homework over to Gore, who returned it an hour later without a word. Gore left her alone that night, for whatever reason. She suspected he was too busy fucking the girl he’d stumbled home with two days ago. Without changing her clothes, she pulled up the lock-boxes under her floor-boards, packed a few days’ worth of clothes, her letters and pictures from John, made sure she had her laptop, phone, and wallet, and waited until midnight.

 

The house got quiet, she checked Gore and Nick, and everyone else in the house currently, and escaped out her window. She walked down the street and kept going until she reached a hostel, where she paid for a one-night stay in a private room. Taking her key, she found her room and locked the door behind her, putting her stuff down and digging out a clean change of clothes before taking a shower in the communal bathroom, bagging the clothes she’d shown up in for throw-away. It felt amazing to take a shower in private, and she scrubbed down well. After changing into pajamas and brushing her teeth, Scotty left the private shower-stall and headed back to her room. The first thing she did was lock her door again and then she picked up her phone. It wasn’t the phone she usually carried, this was a special phone Gore didn’t have access to. She kept it charged up but powered off for safety, except for the occasional power-up to activate a GPS device inside. Powering up the phone, she opened her contacts and scrolled to a certain listing. Hoping it wasn’t too early where she was calling to, Scotty sat on the bed and waited while the call rang through. It didn’t take long, so she kind of wondered. It was Saturday already, where had she found him?

_“This is Mycroft Holmes.”_ The same salutation as always, thank God that had never changed. He sounded kind of groggy, and she double-checked her time. It was 1:15 am in Seattle, so that meant it was 8:15 am in London. Had she actually woken him up? This was a late hour for him to be asleep.

            “Uh. Uncle Mike?” She swallowed hard, “It’s…um, it’s Scotty Hudson.” There was a pause and she started ticking over the seconds in her head.

            _“Scotty?”_ A hint of suspicion in his voice. _“Where are you? Are you somewhere safe?”_

“Yeah. I’m…at a hostel. Uncle Mike, I need help.” She sniffled, curling up on her bed, “I…I need you. I need help.” This was a phone-call she probably should have made ages ago and just hadn’t had the guts.

            _“Are you in Seattle still?”_

“Yeah. I’m, uh, I’m gonna try flying out of here later today, I just…I need somewhere to go. Can I…come stay with you for a while?”

            _“Scotty, I’m…I’m not in London at the moment.”_

“Oh my god. Where are you?” That explained why he sounded so tired. She _had_ woken him up! Great. “I’m sorry I woke you up!”

_“No, this is exactly what we always told you to do, Scotty. If you were even in trouble, call me as soon as you could.”_ She could hear soft rustling, the sound of movement, _“I’m in Vancouver on business at the moment, can you meet me here?”_

“Yeah! Sure, that’s…that should be pretty easy!” She grabbed her laptop and started looking for routes from Seattle to Vancouver. It was two hours driving, four hours by bus or train, and forty-five minutes by air. She didn’t know anyone who could drive her to Vancouver and she didn’t feel comfortable hitch-hiking, so it was either rail, bus, or plane to get there.

            “Um, I can be in Vancouver by…noon? That’s the latest I can get there, maybe a little after that. Where are you?”

            _“I’m at the Four Seasons. The last of my obligations should be concluded by 2:00 pm. After that, I’m due back in London.”_

“I should have called you earlier, Uncle Mike, I know that, I’m so sorry.”

            _“You did exactly what we told you to do, don’t apologise. And don’t worry about your uncle. As soon as you’re safe, we’ll deal with him.”_

“Okay. I’ll see you later, then?”

            _“I’ll add your ticket to my itinerary before you arrive.”_

“That’s…great, actually. Oh, my god. Thank you so much.” Scotty hid her face in her knees, “I feel a little sick to my stomach, Uncle Mike.”

            _“Have you been seen to by a doctor?”_

“Two days ago. I’ll…get an ROI for you.” She had a list of things to do before she left Seattle. Hanging up with Mycroft after saying goodbye, Scotty slept. Not well, but she slept.

* * *

 


	2. Seattle - London: Scotty Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty's escape efforts continue and get a bit more interesting. Time to put Seattle and her painful past behind her. Time to go home.

* * *

After a fitful night’s sleep, Scotty got up at seven and took another shower in the communal bathroom and got dressed. She knew it would take a few hours for Gore to figure out she was gone, since she was usually out of the house by now anyway, and by the time he did, she fully intended to be out of Washington. After turning in her key, she called a cab, and when the cab arrived she gave the driver directions to Razzy’s Emporium to buy more tea. Not for herself, but for John. She would send him one more care-package before she left for London and a new life. When the cab rolled to a stop by the store, she asked the driver to wait, she wasn’t going to take very long. He just shrugged and she ran into the store. The bell above the door jangled and she headed for the back of the store.

“Hi, Charlie!”

“Hey, Scotty-Girl! Haven’t seen you in a while!” The cheerful British store-owner, who had come to Seattle from Essex several years ago, watched her make her way through the store, “Back for your usual, then?”

“Yep.”

“Got a couple of cases if you want ‘em.”

“My pen-pal would love them.” She found the shelved boxes, “How much did you order?”

“Two cases.”

“I’ll take ‘em both.” She grabbed the boxes from the shelf and carried them back to the front of the store. Charles Niall just rang her up with a sad smile. She guessed he knew something was up.

“You heading for London, then?”

“Safest place I can think of to go, I need to get across the Atlantic first.” She handed over her card, “I’ll send you my new address when I get settled.”

“You do that, and stay out of trouble.”

“We’ll see where I go.” She shrugged and took her card back after Charlie had run it. “Thanks for everything, Charlie, you’ve always been a good friend to me.”

“Someone’s gotta look out for you, love.” Charlie handed her the box in which he had packed the cases of tea. Each case held twelve boxes of tea, which contained fifty foil-wrapped tea-bags that was on top of the half-case worth of boxes she had cleared from the shelves. She had also put in a couple of packages of a particular brand of chocolate biscuits John was awful fond of, and some sweeties. She took the box with her when she left, Charlie held the door for her. The driver took her next to the closest post-office so she could mail the package. She transferred two of the boxes of tea to her backpack so she could have some with her.

 

When she got to the post-office, she leaned in through the window.

“Hey. What am I gonna owe you for this? I still need to find a way out of here, but I have one more stop to make.”

“You trying to get somewhere, kid?” The driver looked her over.

“Yeah. Vancouver, actually.”

“Don’t worry about it. Go get that where it’s supposed to go, I’ll hold the car.” The driver just smiled and Scotty watched him reach over and turn off the meter. He kept the light on, but the meter was off. “Go on, kiddo.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She blinked and looked over her shoulder at the post-office. Going inside, she found a postcard for John and wrote him a short note.

 

**Dear John,**

**I found that tea you like so much. Cleared the place out of it, I think the owner bought it just for us. I added some of those chocolate biscuits you like and some sweeties. Hope you like black liquorice as much as I do.**

**Anyway, this is the last time you’ll get anything from me in Seattle. I’m leaving for my own sake, but don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine where I’m going. It’ll probably be a couple of months before you hear from me again, but please don’t worry, I’m not going to be anywhere near Seattle and with any luck, my foster will get what’s coming to him fair and square. I’ll write again once things have calmed down a little, I might even have a chance to call you.**

**Please take care of yourself, don’t get shot.**

**Scotty**

Sealing the package once she had put the letter inside, she filled out the proper forms and waited her turn. While she waited, she found a one-way ticket from Seattle to Vancouver. She was due in Vancouver no later than 2:00 pm, so she could fly in on a one-way, rendezvous with Mycroft, catch the Vancouver-London flight, and get on with her day. And her whole life. Thank Christ Dad had been a British citizen and, by default of being born in London and living there until she was ten, so was Scotty. Sort of? Time to go home. Scotty found a flight from Seattle to Vancouver, that left Seattle at 1:08 pm and arrived in Vancouver at 2:07 pm and got a ticket. Then she sent a text to Mycroft to let him know she would be able to meet them at the airport, all she needed from him was the gate, flight number, and departure time. She gave him her flight information so he would know when she was arriving and such.

 

When her turn was called, Scotty handed over the care-package and the customs papers. When the clerk asked if she was shipping any food or perishables, she answered very simply, “Tea, biscuits, liquorice, and a postcard.” The clerk looked at the address and smiled.

“Oh, another care-package for your pen-pal?”

“Yep.” Most of the postal clerks in the city knew about her back-and-forth with John Watson, some better than others, that particular address was familiar to them.

“Sure hope that boy’s keeping himself safe these days.”

“Well, he’s not got himself shot or anything particularly stupid yet, so I think we’re okay.” Scotty smiled, “He said just last night that he wanted more tea. I think he got his wish.”

“Looks like it! Still single, is he?”

“Yep.”

“Pity, he’s so handsome.” The clerk grinned at Scotty, who blushed a little. Yeah, her pen-pal was pretty good-looking, she wasn’t going to lie. Not that she would ever admit that out loud, or go out of her way to find him. But, at any rate, she was getting out of Seattle and far, far away from Gore Richardson. Good riddance and fuck him soundly.

 

  **:-:**

 

After getting the care-package on its way, Scotty went to the Planned Parenthood clinic and filled out an ROI form for her records, all of them, to be released to Mycroft Holmes. Then it was off to SeaTac to make her flight to Vancouver. She made sure to pay the cabbie well for the numerous stops made beforehand, even when he refused the full fare.

“Sweetheart, you are not the first girl I’ve taken somewhere trying to escape a bad situation.” He said even as he took a stack of bills, “You remind me of my daughter, and if she was ever in the kind of trouble you’re runnin’ from, I’d want her to get there safe. You take care of yourself, alright? Wherever you end up?”

“I’ll try to. London first, who knows where after that.” She looked back at the doors of the terminal building, “Thanks for…not asking questions.”

“Didn’t need to, kid. The bruises tell enough of a story. Want me to tell anyone you’ve skipped town?”

“Um.” She hesitated, but then she caught sight of the T.O.P. sticker on the back passenger window. Taxis On Patrol, the civilian support branch staffed by taxi drivers all over Seattle.

“I’ll let ‘em know you’re going out of town.”

“Okay. Thanks. Um, talk to Robert Mueller, if you can. He knows my story.”

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Scotty Hudson.”

“Yeah, I’ll get word to ‘em. You have a safe flight, then.”

“Thanks a lot.” She gave the driver another tip and headed into the terminal. She was plenty early for her flight and checked in, using a fake ID that listed her birth-year as 1988, got her boarding-pass, dug her British passport out of her backpack and put it somewhere accessible, and headed for security with her American passport in the front pocket of her backpack. A friend of hers had made the ID for her once, not to get her into any 18+ venues in town, but for this very purpose. Someone else had maintained her British passport, it came in the mail on her sixteenth birthday, she had picked it up at her P.O. Box with her regular mail. There was no real return-address, a search of the address returned a post-box somewhere in London, and a hand-written note attached that read “You may find this to be very useful in the future. Safe travels, and my condolences for your losses. Your father was a good man, and one of our best. We will miss him. – H”. 

 

Whoever H was, he must have known something about Scotty’s family, there was a hint of the personal in the letter. She knew Dad had been a cop for nearly her whole life, but she got the feeling there was something else he had done a long time ago, something he had walked away from to build a family. Or, to protect the family he had already. She hadn’t ever asked about the job her parents didn’t talk about, but sometimes she would catch her dad staring out the window late at night, usually with a custom-built Sig-Sauer P226 next to him, a distant light in his eyes. She would ask what was wrong, and he would just pull her into his lap and hold her for a while, telling her not to worry herself, he was just feeling a bit nostalgic for something he wasn’t really in a position to miss right now.

“Do you miss The Work, Dad?” She would ask. They called his unspoken work “The Work”.

“Yes, love. Sometimes, I miss The Work alot.” He would smile at her, a bit sadly, and kiss her on the forehead, “But you’re here to keep me nice and busy. You’re my good girl, my smart girl. You’ll do amazing things someday, Scotty, I promise.”He said the same thing every time, but she always asked the same question. It kind of became a ritual of theirs. When she’d gotten older, she would sit on the floor next to the chair and stay there until he sent her back to bed.

 

The P226 was a special gun, it had passed to Scotty after his death, but she had sent it along to a friend in London. She couldn’t use it and didn’t want it in the house with Gore around. She didn’t know what had happened to it, but she had to trust that it was safe, wherever it had ended up. Scotty had spent a lot of time around guns, had learned early to respect them and their capabilities. She still remembered the birthday present she had gotten from her dad when she had turned thirteen and the promise he had made that when she was sixteen, he would get her the license to conceal-carry it: a two-tone Beretta 92 FS with a stainless steel slide. Like most of her cherished personal effects, it had been sent to trusted friends after her dad’s death and she was sent to her uncle. She couldn’t remember who had it or how to get it back from them, but she suspected it was quite safe wherever it was.

 

Her father had left her a short list of names to which she could send anything that needed safeguarding in the event she found herself in any kind of trouble, and a lot of what she owned had been sent to those people. Mostly it was addresses, with initials attached, and nearly all of them were overseas in England. The names attached were likely aliases, but that didn’t matter. Scotty had taken gun-safety classes and gotten a conceal-carry permit despite not owning any firearms at the moment. She had borrowed a friend’s gun for the classes, another P226 since she knew how to handle that particular gun. She still had the permit somewhere in her things.

 

  **:-:**

 

It wasn’t until she was wheels-down in Vancouver that Scotty started to relax. There was no way Gore would miss her until at least tomorrow, she was fine until he tried to file a missing-person’s report. And no one who mattered was going to care. If she was lucky, that cabbie had already passed the word along to the proper authorities that Scotty Hudson was skipping town. She was good as gone, gone, baby, gone. Scotty’s only consolation was knowing that there was no way her uncle was getting away with anything else. For one thing, she’d left the country.

 

After finding her way to the proper concourse and gate-area for her flight to London, Scotty looked for Mycroft. She didn’t see him yet, but according to a text-message, he was on his way now and would meet her at their gate. Getting a quick lunch at one of the concourse restaurants, she ate at her gate and waited for the rest of her party, making sure her passport was accessible and ready to go, Mycroft would have her boarding-pass for her. No one really gave a lone teenager much of a second-glance, which she was ever so grateful for. She had her headphones in when she was aware of motion at the top of her periphery. Her head was down, and the hood of her sweatshirt pulled up, but she still had clear peripheral vision. Raising her head a bit, she took in a fine suit, quality “country-tweed” good for long travel, briefcase, overcoat, and umbrella. Sitting back, she looked up and made eye-contact with Mycroft Holmes.

“Uncle Mike!” Scotty almost tripped over her backpack as she jumped up to hug him. “Hi!”

“Scotty. Thank God you’re safe.” That was a hell of a hug, he was worried. Not that she blamed him. He pushed her back to arms-length and looked her over, taking note of new bruises and old ones, signs of her life getting left behind. Miraculously, the number of times she had been raped were very few, seeing as she had only been living with Gore Richardson for two years. Beatings were far more common, but every single injury had been recorded as soon as she realized she could get help but not go to the cops. Scotty slumped forward against Mycroft and tried not to cry. All he did was pick up her backpack, put it on the chair, set his things down atop hers, and sit her down, kneeling in front of her.

“Scotty, look at me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologising, you did nothing wrong.” He reached up and touched her face, careful of the bruising, “I will take you home, love, and take care of you. Can you trust me?” All she could do was nod.

“Is there anything I can do, Mycroft?” Mycroft’s companion broke in, and Scotty realized belatedly that he hadn’t travelled to Vancouver alone. Not that he ever did, and there were actually three of them. Mycroft and two others.

“Water, Gregory? Please?”

“Yeah, no problem. Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes. As soon as we get to London, I’m having you seen to by a doctor.”

“But I’ve already taken a shower. Several.” She looked at him, blinking away tears.

“That won’t matter. I have ways of collecting evidence, this is to ensure that you haven’t been permanently injured.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sniffled. It was a quiet wait for their flight, Scotty accepted a bottle of water from the man Mycroft had called Gregory. When asked if she had eaten, she admitted to buying food on the concourse. Mycroft and Gregory looked at each other and then at her.

“When did you last eat in the past week, Scotty?”

“When I got to Vancouver.”

“Jesus. Do I have to make any phone-calls?”

“No.”

“A tip-call might be acceptable.” Mycroft handed something to the quiet woman behind him and gave an order in some foreign language. Scotty spoke at least six, but the language she heard was not one of them. The woman looked at whatever he had given her and nodded, leaving the gate-area again. Scotty watched Gregory look up the proper numbers, ended up giving him the numbers of Christopher Morrison and Rob Muller so he could leave tips with them instead of going through the phone-tree at Crime Stoppers. Scotty thought of something and grabbed her laptop. Digging a portable hard-drive out of her backpack, she hooked it up to her computer.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft peeked over her shoulder.

“Making things easier for Dad’s folk at SPD, and a whole hell of a lot harder for Gore Richardson.” She sniffed and entered a few keystrokes, “Dad taught me how to do this when I was ten.”

“And you were programming when you were twelve. You seem to have graduated to a remarkable level of hacking.”

“Personal servers are easy. I tried a bigger server last week, got booted out pretty quick.” She shrugged and hit “Enter” on her keyboard. “Hey, Sergeant Lestrade?”

“Hmm?” He looked over his shoulder at her, he was still waiting for the call to go through. She watched the progress bar creep towards 100% and smirked.

“When they finally get around to answering their damn phones, make sure you mention the child-pornography on my uncle’s hard-drive?”

“The _what?!”_

“Approximately 750 gigs of it, to be exact.” She looked at him over the top of her computer as he turned to a conversation, having gotten through to one of her contacts over at Seattle PD, “Is that Morrison or Muller?”

“Uh, hang on?” He looked at her, “What?”

“Is that Morrison or Muller?”

“Morrison?”

“Hand it to me.” She pushed her headphones around her neck and held out one hand, still focused on her computer. The phone landed in her hand and she lifted it to her ear, cradling it between ear and shoulder as she kept working. “Hey, Chief?”

_“Scotty Hudson, what are you doing?”_

“Getting out of dodge and making your job really easy. If you want my uncle, I’ve got 750 gigs of evidence for you.”

_“Where are you right now?”_

“Sitting in Vancouver International Airport waiting for a flight to London.” She looked at Mycroft, who pretended to be disinterested but smiled anyway. At least as much as he ever smiled.

_“So you’re about to be far, far away from Seattle. Do you have someone you can stay with over there?”_

“Yeah, I’ve got friends. People Dad knew.” She didn’t miss Mycroft nodding. She would probably stay with him for a while until things cooled down and then look into what on earth to do with herself. Her computer pinged and she smirked, shutting down the hack and ejecting the hard-drive from her computer. “Hey, this isn’t my phone, so I can’t talk long. I just wanted to let you guys know, in case you didn’t know already, that I’m out of Seattle.”

_“Yeah, we heard about that. I was waiting to hear from you, I’m glad you called. Thanks for the tip, Scotty. Who’s your friend, by the way? He sounded foreign?”_

“That was Greg Lestrade, I think he’s with The Met in London? I have no idea what he was doing in Vancouver, but I don’t mind having friends to travel with. Less likely to get stopped, y’know?”

_“Who are you with right now?”_

“Uh, someone Dad worked with in London. Doubt you ever met him. Holmes?”

_“Name doesn’t sound familiar, but there’s a lot about your dad that we just don’t talk about. I’m glad you’re going home, Scotty. Take care of yourself, and don’t be a stranger.”_

“Don’t worry, Chief, I’ll keep you guys busy.” She looked at her watch and then up over her laptop. The woman travelling with Mycroft had returned carrying bags of food. “Hey, I’ve gotta go, Chief, I’ll catch you later.”

_“Take care of yourself, Scotty, okay? For me? Don’t do anything stupid.”_

“Depends on what your definition of stupid is, sir.”

_“Hacking major international intelligence agencies come to mind.”_

“That’s on my list.” Not telling anyone that she’d actually done just that already with one of said agencies. By accident, but no one involved or aware really minded.

_“You’re going to get caught someday, kiddo.”_

“Haven’t caught me yet. I got booted last week for tripping a firewall-bot, but that doesn’t count.”

_“Scotty, you’re sixteen, you shouldn’t be doing things like this.”_

“Keeps me off the streets, doesn’t it? Besides, it’s not like I can just show up on a crime-scene whenever I want to anymore. People kind of look at you funny if you spit out the cause of death and motive without any formal training.”

_“But you’re damn good at it. You’d be a damn fine detective, Scotty, do your old man proud. Do better than, even.”_

“I’ll worry about what to do with myself when I get to London. I’ll talk to you later, Chief, food’s here.” Hanging up with Morrison, she gave Lestrade his phone back in exchange for one of the bags. “Trade you that for food.”

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?” she nibbled on a french fry, trying to remember the last time she’d eaten anything close to a decent meal.

“You just uploaded a hard-drive to another computer in a different country. How?”

“Sir, I’ve been hacking computers and building code since I was twelve. I’m sixteen now.”

“You don’t mess with the big dogs, do you?”

“Occasionally, it’s good practice.”

“But you’re…”

“Testing fire-wall weaknesses. You’d be surprised how bad some of the firewalling is at any named IA.” Scotty shrugged and took a bite of hamburger, “It’s more fun to play with the local PD and State Patrol offices. I know people there, so I’ll drop little presents on their desktops, key-stroke activations for five-minute loops or ten-minute loops. I never spam viruses or malware. I can, but I don’t have any reason to.”

“But you have no problem dropping a couple gigs of porn on someone’s personal computer?”

“Gore Richardson is a fucking monster and deserves to burn in hell. That porn was all deleted from his hard-drives over the last six months, but he didn’t realize that I know how to recover or save off data before it’s destroyed and thought he was being clever and sneaky.”

“So…you can recover deleted or corrupted data?”

“If the drive’s intact? Yeah, I can recover most of it. Why?”

“Uh.” He blinked and looked at Mycroft, “I…”

“You can have Scotty, Gregory. Her age is no fair measure of her skill.” Mycroft just smiled.

“Got a case you need a hand with?”

“Yeah, actually. I…could use a hand. I already asked for outside help once, but…Christ I could use someone good with computers.”

“I’ll take a look when we get to London.” She looked at her laptop as it pinged and couldn’t help a giggle. “Oh, there he is.”

“There’s who?”

“Oh, just a soft target I like to mess with. He lives in Maryland, but I like to mess with his computer sometimes. Usually his personals, but I did get into his work the other day. I forgot to warn him about a weak spot in his firewall.”

“When was this?”

“Last week. I got through his firewalls no problem, it was when I hit the primary servers of his agency that I ran into a little trouble. But they didn’t get to kick me out before I left something for them. It’ll have been purged by now, of course, but I can still…there we go.” She sent out a little bot bearing a new gif-set to her contact, “He’s been out of town for a week, so I haven’t talked to him much.”

“You talk to this person?”

“I’m kind of his informal IT person. I accidentally hacked his work once and saved him from another hacker trying to compromise from the inside. Now I kind of drop in on him occasionally and see how he’s doing.” She did the same thing for John Watson over in Afghanistan, but not as regularly. Letters and emails and phone-calls were the best way to keep in touch with him, and it was hard to hack military-grade servers. Not impossible, but hard.

 

As they waited for their flight to be called, Scotty was aware of an outburst further down the concourse.

“Oh, not again! Are you kidding me!” Scotty froze, fingers poised above the keys. It wasn’t so much the accent as it was the voice. God that sounded familiar.

“Who was that?” She squinted.

“Oh, it’s Agent Ross. I forgot, he was travelling to London next.” Mycroft didn’t look that surprised, and Scotty peeked over the top of her laptop as the source of the outburst stormed into view. For a minute, she thought it was John Watson. It sure looked like him. But…it wasn’t. Next time she talked to him, she’d have to ask if he had any siblings or cousins, because this…oh…wait. Was this…? Scotty looked at her computer again and pulled up a new browser window, fingers flying across the keyboard. Using IP addresses and code-resourcing, she combed through the data until she got a name for her CIA contact: Everett K. Ross. Mid-level agent, worked in anti-terrorism post 9/11. Former Armed Forces, Air Force pilot. Looking up, she stared at the disgruntled man coming their way and gasped.

“Holy shit!”

“Scotty?”

“Oh my god, I need to ask my pen-pal if he has any siblings or cousins! That’s not possible!” She muffled a squeal, “Holy shit, I never knew what he looked like! I didn’t even know his name, just his handle!”

“His…handle?” Greg blinked.

“His username. He calls himself Indigo on chatrooms and messengers.”

“What’s your handle?”

“Retrobot.”

“Why does that fit you?”

“Because it’s what I do.” She kept working while Mycroft went to meet Ross, talk him down, and invite him to wait with their party.

“Yeah, do you happen to know somebody who can fix my phone?” He grumbled as they got back to where Scotty’s party waited. “It’s messing around again.”

“Hand it here.” Scotty didn’t even look up, she just held her hand out. “Got spammed?”

“Something. It’s never my phone, though, this is a first.”

“Hang on a second.” She took the phone and quickly unlocked it, ignoring his outburst when she figured out the code going by the fingerprint pattern on the screen, hooking it up to her laptop.

“Let’s see, you did…oh, don’t open it on your phone next time! You’re lucky it didn’t shut down!” She set the kill-code up, reset the code, and put the bot on standby. Unplugging the phone from her computer, she handed it back.

“There. You’re not supposed to open those on your phone server, it’ll crash every time.”

“How did you do that?”

“That’s my secret, sir.” She looked up at him, sizing him up a bit, comparing what she had in front of her to the profile headshot displayed on her screen. Yep, it was definitely Indigo. “You look a lot like a friend of mine, but he’s British. You’re American.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, just that you could be related.” She shrugged, “But it’s just on one side of the family, isn’t it? You’ve got family in the UK, um…mum’s family.”

“How…”

“Dad was a detective, I learned a lot from him.” Scotty sniffed and tilted her head, “You’re Indigo?”

“I’m…hang on.”

“Wait for it.” She whispered to Greg, who was trying so hard not to laugh, “And don’t laugh, that’s not nice.”

“Oh god, I thought Sherlock was the only one who could do that!”

“Shh.”

“Hang on! You’re not Retrobot, are you?” Ross stared at her, “My god, you’re just a kid!”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“No! I mean…you’re…what, sixteen?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing in Vancouver?” Ross adjusted the strap of his bag over one shoulder, “You’re not travelling alone, are you?”

“Nope.”

“She’s with me, Everett.” Mycroft piped in.

“She’s not one of yours is she, Holmes?”

“Not formally, but she is one of mine.”

“Oh.” Ross tilted his head, “That’s…okay.” With a shrug, he sat down, taking the seat next to Scotty without missing a beat. “So you’re the sneaky little pest who got bounced from our servers last week.”

“I found another weak spot in your firewall, fixed it for you before I got kicked.”

“Thanks for that.” He watched her work, “What are you working on?”

“Nothing interesting.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I hacked a personal server earlier today, dumped a couple gigs of material remotely onto a hard-drive, and coordinated a perfect set-up.”

“You got someone arrested?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t swat them, did you?”

“Thought about it, but this particular mean individual needed a special touch.” She looked sideways at her CIA contact. “This is weird, I had no idea what you looked like.”

“Never thought to look for pictures, did you?”

“Didn’t need to. It wasn’t important. But, you really look like my pen-pal from Britain, it’s weird for me.”

“You’ve said that, twice. I’m wondering if that’s going to be a problem.”

“Not for me if it won’t be for you.” She shrugged, “Just an observation.”

“You said I had family in the UK, how did you know that?”

“You have just the tiniest bit of an accent left, it’s most obvious when you’re upset, it slips through. I’d say…West Country, Somerset. Uh…” She drummed her fingers against her keyboard, “Bristol? Or further south?”

“How did…?”

“Was I right?”

“Yeah! My mom’s family was from Bristol! You got that from an accent no one else can hear!”

“I’ve got an ear for languages and accents. Always have. Would probably make a killing as an interpreter, if I felt like it.”

“How many languages do you speak fluently, then?”

“About…six. Maybe five. Dad made sure I was multilingual from an early age. I was speaking French and Russian while most kids were still learning how to speak English.”

“And you’re sixteen?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t suppose you speak any Middle Eastern languages, do you?”

“I know a bit of Arabic and some Pashto, I learned those for my pen-pal.”

“You’re fascinating. And damn young.”

“Can’t help the age issue.”

“Well, you keep me out of trouble at work, so I guess I can’t complain.”

“Glad to help.” She just smiled at Ross, trying to convince herself that there was absolutely no way he could possibly be related to John Watson. When their flight was called, they boarded and found their seats. Flying first-class had its perks, and she had room to spread out. Making herself at home, she took a melatonin and got some sleep. It was safe to sleep, and she doubted any of her fellow travellers were going to mind too much.

* * *

 


	3. London - Afghanistan: Scotty Hudson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further adventures are had, and Scotty gets in a bit more international travel. Sometimes having CCTV cameras in certain places can be a good thing, or a bad thing. For Scotty, it's a bit of both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Four countries in forty-eight hours, Scotty's keeping herself busy. Off to Afghanistan! Yay?

* * *

It was a quiet, uneventful flight, and she was up in time for landing. Filling out her customs paperwork, she made sure she had everything ready, and prepared for what promised to be an interesting new life. She debated calling her grandmother, possibly visiting. She knew better than to come to London without saying something. Gram had been living in London for three years and kept pestering Scotty to come visit, but with Gore controlling every aspect of her life, it was hard to escape. She would worry about that after she had her head on right.

 

As soon as she was wheels-down and safe at London Heathrow, Scotty joined the queue in Customs and as soon as she cleared through, she rejoined the rest of her party. Ross had to split up, he was in on business after all, but Scotty got a hug out of him before he took off for his hotel.

“You take care of yourself, Retro, okay?”

“I think I’ll be alright now, Indigo. See you ‘round.”

“Yeah. You, too.” He smiled and waved as he headed for the taxi queue. Leaving the airport, Scotty followed Mycroft back to his place, a nice house in Notting Hill, and made herself at home. After taking a shower, a nap, and eating, all on Mycroft’s orders, he took her to be seen by a doctor, which had been discussed back in Vancouver. Scotty wasn’t looking forward to it, but she had the ROI form she had given Mycroft, and he said not to worry, that information would get to the doctors who would be taking care of her from now on. Scotty hadn’t expected a hospital, maybe a private clinic, but soon as she set foot inside the building he had brought her to, entering from an underground entrance, Scotty knew exactly where she was. She hadn’t been here in two years, but she did a three-sixty turn in the subterranean foyer.

“Talk about a homecoming! Damn!”

“Scotty! Come on!” Mycroft was trying to keep her focused.

“You were Dad’s partner! You must have been, that’s how you knew him!” She went to catch up with Mycroft, who was her legal guardian. Two years since her last visit to Vauxhall Cross and it didn’t feel like any time had passed at all. With her backpack over one shoulder, she followed Mycroft along the warren hallways and realized that the last time she had actually been inside this building was for her dad’s funeral. She had flown back to London with the body for the funeral, which had included cremating the remains and interring his ashes at High Gate Cemetery, and stayed for three weeks.

 

**:-:**

 

Once in Medical, Mycroft handed her over to the team of surgeons kept on staff by MI6, explaining the situation and what he was looking to get from this. There was unlikely to be any residual evidence, but the reports would be arriving within the next week or two and he would be handing that information to the surgeons for their dissemination. He just wanted to make sure there was no lasting damage. Evidence from her last encounter would still be present, there would be tearing and inflammation still palpable. By now, this kind of visit was routine for her, and she gave Mycroft her backpack for safekeeping when she followed a friendly, proficient nurse into a small intake room. There, her height, weight, and other vital stats were recorded. From the intake room, she was shown to a spacious, well-lit exam room that looked like any other exam room she had ever been in. The nurse took down the standard flannel gown and drape, setting them on the exam bed and instructing Scotty to undress completely before stepping out. Scotty quickly undressed, folding her clothes aside, and pulled the door open once she was ready. As was expected of a government agency, the staff of Medical were efficient, and the nurse returned with the doctor in tow. Scotty swallowed hard as the doctor introduced himself as James Morgan.

“So, what exactly can we do for you today, Miss Hudson?” Doctor Morgan asked, looking her over with a careful, sharp eye.

“It’s…all on that chart, sir.”

“Past history of sexual abuse and rape, you said.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Recently?”

“Three days ago, sir.”

“And naturally, you’ve showered since then.”

“Not until after I had been seen by a physician and cleared to do so, sir.”

“And where were you seen?”

“Planned Parenthood Seattle Medical Center at 8:15 am on Thursday morning.” She rubbed her thumbs together, nervous, “I was seen by Doctor Connors.”

“Had you been seen or treated by Doctor Connors before?”

“No, sir. I never see the same doctor twice.” Scotty shook her head. She never saw the same doctor more than once, by request, but the nurses and staff all knew her.

“Of course. We’ll get you taken care of, my dear.” Doctor Morgan washed his hands before grabbing a pair of gloves. Everything else he was going to need for this misery was set up on trays on the work-top. He took diligent notes as she told him everything, and he kept a voice-recorder running while he ran the exam. Gore Richardson always used a condom, and his friends used them too, but that didn’t preclude tearing and bleeding, which there was evidence of three days post. Every bruise and scar was recorded and documented properly, Scotty did not envy that transcriptionist one bit. It was awful and humiliating, but it always was when Scotty had a post-rape exam done. After the initial exam, they took blood after Doctor Morgan decided that might as well go into their system as well.

“I’m sure it’s been marked on your paperwork, but who is your guardian, Miss Hudson?” Doctor Morgan looked up briefly from taking notes.

“Uh.” Scotty hesitated. No doubt Mycroft was known all over the agency, but…how did she admit that she knew him?

“You…do have a legal guardian?”

“Yeah, no, that’s…not the problem. Um. H-Holmes.” She kind of tripped over the name, wondering why she was so afraid of admitting that he was her guardian. “Mycroft Holmes.” Doctor Morgan froze, going completely still for a minute.

“I’m sorry?”

“My guardian is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh my god.” Morgan blinked, “Are you Matthew Hudson’s girl, Mariam?”

“Yeah.”

“Miss Hudson, does Mr Holmes know about this?”

“He knows I saw a doctor two days before I met up with him in Vancouver. I’m not sure he knows exactly why, but I can’t begin to imagine he’s going to be very happy when he finds out what Gore Richardson got away with for two years.”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” Morgan looked…scared almost. Scotty wasn’t aware of Mycroft having that much influence in MI6, but she hadn’t really been in touch lately and could easily have missed something. He was moving up quickly in the ranks, she wasn’t sure if he was still in the field or if he had moved to the more administrative side of things yet.

“Well, I’ve done about all I can for you at the moment, Miss Hudson. I’ll flag the reports to go directly to Mr Holmes, to reduce any mix-ups.”

“Yeah, I don’t…I don’t need that information right now. I’ve got a couple of volumes worth of records back in Seattle, I don’t really want to look at anymore encounter statements.”

“Of course not. I’ll just step out and you are free to go when you’re ready.” Doctor Morgan looked her over, “Please be safe while you’re in London with us, Miss Hudson.”

“I think I can handle myself in the city I grew up in.” She shrugged, “Dad was a double-oh and then he was a cop. I’m not completely helpless.”

“No, I…I wouldn’t expect the daughter of a double-oh agent to be helpless, but God help the man responsible for your abuses, Miss Hudson.”

“He doesn’t deserve divine intervention.”

“No, I…don’t suppose he would, would he? Not for taking advantage of you like he did.”

“Nope.” Scotty rubbed her forearm, picking at the edge of the bandage-tape wrapped around her elbow. Once Doctor Morgan and the nurse were gone, Scotty quickly got dressed again and wondered what about Mycroft made Doctor Morgan so uncomfortable. Once she was dressed, she went in search of Mycroft. She found him in the small waiting area, speaking to Doctor Morgan. That wasn’t so much of a problem as the fact that M was also there. Uh oh. Scotty slowed down and stayed out of sight.

“I’m very sorry, Mr Holmes. She’s…well, she’s fine. I mean, for what she’s been through, she’s in almost perfect health. Given a few weeks, the bruising and internal injury will heal completely. I would suggest making sure she eats at least two large meals a day, she’s almost dangerously underweight. And be patient with her if she shows any signs of PTSD, I would fully expect to her to display symptoms and perhaps even act out.”

“Of course she would, any sane person would after going through that kind of living hell. It irritates me that I had no knowledge of the trouble she was in, that she never reached out to me.”

“Give the girl credit for preserving herself, 003.” M scolded, putting one hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, “The fact that she dared to reach out to you at all is to be applauded. She is going to need you now more than she ever has before.”

“But she has _never_ needed me before. Never in sixteen years.” Mycroft looked angry and sad, and Scotty couldn’t piece it together why. “Matthew took care of her for me, when I asked him an enormous favour I had no right to.”

“Because you trusted him to maintain your integrity for you when someone else tried to compromise you in the very worst of ways. Celine Charmont was devious and eager, but she thought you would denounce the child on sight and she would have a chance to undermine you again.”

“I regret nothing I did to remove that woman from society, I only regret that Scotty may have paid a steeper price because of my carelessness than I realized. And may yet in the future.”

“You give that girl a family like she deserves, like she had taken from her when Matthew died, 003.” M got that tone she put down on her stubborn agents, Scotty had heard it used on Dad a couple of times, “She’s one of us and always will be, do not underestimate your own blood.”

“Of course I can’t. She’s far too clever for her age and far too gifted to be ignored. I watched her hack a CIA server and kill-code a misfired bot that almost crashed a personal phone in Vancouver, for Christ’s sake.” Mycroft shook his head sharply, “She’s been building and coding since she was ten and hacking since she was thirteen. She hasn’t broken CIA or our agencies, but she will.”

“What does she do?”

“Gif-sets. Timed gif-sets. No viruses or malware. However, she remote-hacked a personal computer and uploaded nearly eight hundred gigabytes of material to a hard-drive as part of a police sting operation to provide needed evidence.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen. She will be seventeen on the first of the new month.”

“You know what to do, 003.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Gentlemen.” M nodded to Morgan and Mycroft, turned to leave, and caught sight of Scotty, but said nothing or gave any indication that she had. Scotty, trying to process what she’d overheard, ducked into a nearby bathroom and locked the door. Wait a minute. Wait. Hudson. Holmes? Matthew Hudson…Mycroft Holmes? Was that why he had been so involved in her life until 2003? Why Dad had always told her to call him if she was in trouble? But, he was her legal guardian, he had say in everything that happened to her, why had she gone to Gore Richardson? Why hadn’t he stepped up? He wasn’t stupid, but she would keep it to herself that she had overheard what could possibly have been the most condemning confession every uttered inside the walls of MI6. She hadn’t been meant to hear any of it, but Scotty had always been rather good at being invisible and eavesdropping on sensitive conversations. She washed her face, she didn’t look that bad and nothing that couldn’t be attributed to what she had left behind in Seattle, steeled herself, and went back out to find Mycroft. He was sitting now, waiting for…something. Her backpack sat between his feet. She took a minute to study him and noticed his body-language. Tired, defeated perhaps, his shoulders were sloped and there was something in his expression. When he heard her coming, he looked up. There was no visible sign that she had heard something she wasn’t meant to, and he got up slowly.

“Scotty…”

“Can we go home now?”

“Absolutely. Doctor Morgan said you may not be yourself for a while.”

“Why should I be? I’m not even sure what being myself is like anymore.” She took her backpack from him. “Can we get something to eat? I ate twice yesterday, but I’m hungry.”

“Of course.” He put an arm around her shoulders and they left MI6 together. It was a quiet drive from Vauxhall Cross to Notting Hill.

 

  **:-:**

 

When they got home, she put her backpack up in the room that would be, until further notice and quite possibly permanently, hers. Taking her laptop, she went back downstairs and found Mycroft in the kitchen. There wasn’t much in the way of food, but Scotty was nothing if not creative. These days she ate whatever she could get her hands on, usually junk food or fast food, but she knew how to cook and wasn’t half bad at it. She found rice, frozen veggies, and some chicken, and had an idea. Chicken stir-fry sounded like a good idea.

“For a kitchen this nice, it doesn’t look like it gets used much.” She dug around for what she was going to need, locating a heavy pan for the chicken, and stuffed in the back of the lower cabinet, an unopened rice-cooker. One of the nice, expensive ones that had settings for brown rice and the likes.

“You’ve…never opened this.” She put the box down on the counter, “Where did you get this? This is nice.”

“I’m rarely home enough to bother with the kitchen for more than a brief meal. That was a gift from my mother.”

“Why does this seem like just the kind of present she’d give you when you moved out of the house?” She looked for something to open the box with and found a multi-tool in a drawer. After getting the box open, Scotty unpacked the rice cooker and gave the detachable pieces a quick hand-wash before she dried them off and set the cooker up for its inaugural use. The first thing she did was rinse the rice before adding water to the pot. She used the two-to-one ratio and hit the quick-rice setting after adding the veggies to the steamer basket, which sat just inside the pot. It would take about thirty minutes, which was perfect. While the rice and veggies cooked, she got started on the chicken, putting oil and butter in the pan to melt.

“You use both?”

“Tastes better.” She didn’t have to look to see the expression on his face. “I might need to eat better, and more, but you could use a pick up in your own diet, y’know.”

“I’m…”

“Don’t. You’re fine.” She finally did look up, “Don’t ever compare yourself to anyone else. Your body type is not like your brother’s and it never will be.” All Mycroft did was blink.

“How did you know about Sherlock?”

“Because I’ve met him. Once, at least, that I can recall. He’s…weird.” She remembered a dishevelled, tall young man, with pale skin and wild curly dark hair and bloodshot eyes. It had taken three days before she figured out that it was Mycroft’s younger brother Sherlock.

“That’s a…nice thing to say about my brother.”

“Is he still like that?”

“Yes. Unfortunately. Don’t be surprised if he breaks in while we’re home, he never did quite grasp the concept of ringing the bell.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. With the pan hot enough, she finished prepping the chicken and added it to the pan to cook, giving a quick shake to distribute things evenly and checked on the rice before she cleaned up. Things were going nicely, and she thought she might have timed it just perfectly so everything was more or less done at the same time. While she let the food cook, keeping an eye on the chicken with a ten-minute timer to check on it, she did some work on her laptop. She pulled up her coding windows and opened a new browser. It was 5:30 pm in London, 9:30 am in Seattle, and 10:30 pm in Afghanistan. Scotty messed with SPD for a while, keeping a bank of CCTV feeds running at the top of her screen. Those feeds were from six cameras set up around Camp Bastion in Lashkar Gah, she had hacked into them months ago and used them to spy on John. She wasn’t sure he knew about her camera-hacking wizardry, but it was a good way to keep tabs on him when she couldn’t talk to him otherwise.

“What on earth are those?” Mycroft had just happened to look and saw the CCTV feed.

“Those are CCTV cameras. Six, to be precise.”

“Where are you getting the feed from?”

“Afghanistan. Took me a couple of weeks to get through all of the firewalls and such, but all I wanted were the cameras.” She shrugged and pulled up a couple of the cameras to split-screen, “This part is so much easier if I have a secondary monitor.”

“Where is this?”

“Camp Bastion. These cameras are around the hospital compound. I’ve got one on the main gates, two on the hospital compound, one on the air-strip and, a couple more on the motor-pool.” Like it was no big deal a sixteen-year-old from Seattle, Washington had eyes on a secure foreign military compound for kicks.

“So, you can see everything that happens.”

“Just about. I see who’s coming in, from either direction, and I keep a very close eye on the hospital.”

“May I ask why? A civilian interest in foreign military movements could be trouble.”

“That’s where my pen-pal is stationed.” She scanned every frame for any sign of John, he was very likely on base right now. He should be, anyway. “It’s how I keep tabs on him when I can’t talk to him.”

“You know someone on base there?”

“Yep. We met by accident and just kind of kept writing letters to each other. We talk over Skype twice a week, we call each other three times a week, and letters come every couple of weeks. I sent him a care-package right before I left Seattle to let him know I wasn’t there anymore and I would let him know where to write to me as soon as I got settled.” She didn’t see any sign of John by the time dinner was ready, but Scotty didn’t worry too much, sometimes she didn’t see him on the feeds.

 

After dinner, she reviewed pre-recorded footage, having access to archives going back several days. She had hard-drives of such footage, safely stored in a lock-box. She had that lock-box with her, it was one of the things she had brought with her from Seattle. She had evidence of John at the hospital, and it looked like he had gone out on a patrol, but she couldn’t see if those trucks had returned or not. Well, in any case, she wasn’t going to worry right away.

 

**:-:**

 

Mycroft caught her reviewing footage the next morning and asked what she needed for her impromptu surveillance work. This was obviously not the first time she'd done this.

“Two monitors, about standard desktop size, and a keyboard and mouse set. Bluetooth, if you can get it. And I’ll need a workspace.”

“There’s the spare room. We’ll turn that into your workroom.”

“You…don’t mind?” Scotty was a little surprised he was so willing to help her.

“Of course I don’t.” He smiled and leaned over the back of the couch, she had set up camp in the reception room, “I’d be almost disappointed if you weren’t interested in things like this.”

“Why? Because it’s what you and Dad did?”

“Precisely. We didn’t get the start of hacking mainframes and servers, but it is no surprise that you’re a clever girl.” He narrowed his eyes, looking at something on her screen that had slipped her initial notice. “Scotty, what’s that?”

“Hmm?” She turned back to her computer, “What’s what?”

“That.” He pointed at one of the live-feed cameras, “Is that live?”

“Yeah. The recorded footage is down here.” She clicked the window showing recorded footage from the last three days, minimizing it and pulling up the camera in question. “What did you see?”

“That.” He indicated something at the top corner of the screen, “Can you adjust the angle of the camera?”

“Yeah, I should be able to. This is the kind of thing I need a work-station for.” She entered a couple of keystrokes and waited for the camera to respond. It did, panning up a few degrees to give them a better look at…“Oh, shit. Oh. Shit.”

“Is this camera recording?”

“Yeah?”

“Are _you_ recording?”

“It’s going to archive, but…hang on.” She dug into her bag and grabbed a hard-drive. Setting it up took seconds, and she made sure the archived footage would be recorded onto the hard-drive, “Okay. Now we’ve got it. Oh, my god.” They watched, still and attentive, as a local woman was stopped at the gates and questioned. Scotty queued up the rest of the cameras and added them to the upload, hoping this wasn’t going where she thought it was.

“Can’t we do something?”

“Unless you have a way of getting word to your friends? No.”

“Uh…y-yeah. I…hang on. Where’s my phone?” She looked for her phone and found it. She located John on her cameras, he was in the hospital tents, minding his own business and completely ignorant of the trouble that was about to hit the base. She synched it to her gamer-style headset and dialled a familiar number. She had never called him from this number before, but she didn’t have time to worry about that right now. He didn’t usually have his phone on him, but maybe this time…he did? She watched, her attention split between the scene unfolding at the gates and the cameras trained on her pen-pal, listening as it rang through. Behind her, Mycroft was on the phone with his own people. They probably wouldn’t be able to stop this attack, but they could make sure clean-up happened quickly. She split-screened her feeds so she could see them both and watched John pull something from his pocket. It was his phone, thank Jesus Christ.

“Oh, come on, please answer your phone! I am not above calling you again if you let this ring through, you stubborn bastard! Answer your goddamn phone!”

“Scotty!” Mycroft turned from _his_ conversation to scold her, “Language!”

“Oh, stop! I’m working here!” She snapped. “Answer. Your. Phone!” Thankfully, despite not recognizing her number on his screen, John had the common sense to answer.

_“This is John Watson. Hello?”_

“Oh, thank god! You answered! John, where are you right now?”

 _“Sorry, who is this?”_ He didn’t recognize her voice, not that she was surprised. She sighed.

“Turn to your right, Captain, and look up for me.” She waited for him to turn around. “Look up.”

_“I see a camera. Where are you?”_

“I’m on the other side of that camera. See?” She dipped the camera, “Listen, I’m not calling to fuck around with cameras, you need to get out of there. Don’t ask, just…trust me, please.”

_“Where am I supposed to go? I can’t walk away from my post.”_

“Um…hang on.” She looked at her other cameras. Where could she send him that would be safe? The woman had made it through the gates unhindered, and Scotty cursed under her breath.

“Captain, get out of there. Just go.”

_“Go. Where?”_

“Airfield. Head for the airfield.” She whispered, “Hurry!” She watched him duck into the office he kept, grab something from the desk and something else from a rack on the wall, and look around before he left again. Using the cameras, she tracked him through camp. He had hung up with her, but she still had him on camera. The whole camp erupted in chaos as an attack was launched, and she lost sight of John.

“No! Damn it! Damn! No!”

“Scotty. Get up.” Mycroft pulled on her sleeve, “Go upstairs.”

“Why?”

“We’re leaving.” He turned back to the phone-call. “Yes, I’m still here. Yes, I have footage of the attack real-time. It’s safe footage. The cameras were destroyed, but we have the footage we need. Yes, we’re on our way.” Scotty looped her headphones around her neck and ran upstairs. She changed into comfortable clothes, grabbed the bag she had packed in Seattle, added a toothbrush, and ran back downstairs. In five minutes, she had her computer packed up. Despite having watched everything unfold, Scotty didn’t cry. She followed Mycroft to a waiting car, which took them to London City Airport, where they boarded a waiting private jet which then took them to Ankara, Turkey, for a brief refuel stop before continuing on to Kandahar, Afghanistan. Scotty kept working the entire time, archiving footage from the attack and reviewing everything they had to look for John. She didn’t know if he’d ever made it to the airfield, and she couldn’t know until they arrived in Afghanistan.

 

**:-:**

 

When they reached Afghanistan, Scotty was given a set of native clothes to change into. Scotty had seen the firaq partug but had never worn it herself, and she hadn’t expected it to be so comfortable. The firaq was light blue, made of lightweight sturdy linen decorated with fine lines of off-shade embroidery, the trousers were solid black, and a black hijab headscarf covered her hair. Mycroft also gave her a black-and-white checked keffiyeh scarf. She had one John had sent her as a gift, somewhere in her things. As they crossed the airstrip to the chopper that would take them to Camp Bastion, which was still reeling from the attack six and a half hours later, Scotty dug into her backpack. She remembered throwing her keffiyeh in there the night she’d run away from Seattle. It was at the bottom, stuck under her box of hard-drives. Pulling it loose, she shouldered her backpack and shook it out, draping it over the hijab. Until she saw a body, she wouldn’t believe anyone who told her John Watson was dead. Just because she’d lost him on surveillance didn’t mean he was dead.

 

Their pilot explained over the headset that they might not be able to land, the whole place was on lock-down, but Mycroft shook his head.

_“They’ll let us land. Trust me. Get us up.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_ The pilot nodded and shot a quick glance at Scotty, who wasn’t paying attention to him. She was focused on her laptop, skimming new footage from the rebooted cameras, looking for John. The place was a disaster, there were bodies and rubble everywhere. It looked like the gate had been hit, the motor-pool, and the hospital tents. Even the airfield had been hit. This wasn’t one person’s work, this was several agents. That pissed Scotty off, and she cursed in German. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and up front the pilot sputtered.

“Not sorry!” She hissed, “This was a tag-team job, Uncle Mike! There were more than one of them!”

_“Do you have them on surveillance?”_

“I’ll have to go back over the footage when I have better computer access, but I bet I do.” She switched cameras, “We got damn lucky none of my cameras were taken out.

 _“That is lucky.”_ He smiled, _“You will be very useful to Lestrade when we get back to London. I imagine he still needs your help on that case of his.”_

“Yeah, I bet he does! Afghanistan first, London can wait.” She looked out the window at the desert below them, “Less than forty-eight fucking hours and I’ve been to four different countries. That has to be a record of some kind.”

_“For someone your age? An admirable one. And you’ve handled the situation far better than I expected.”_

“I need a body to believe he’s dead, Uncle Mike. He’s not dead, he’s…wounded. Probably pretty badly.” Scotty turned back to her laptop and looked over the current footage. Suddenly, at the top of the second medical feed, she saw movement. Adjusting the camera, she watched John walk right across the frame.

“Thank god.” She heaved a sigh of relief, “Thank. Fucking. God.”

_“Find him?”_

“He’s alive. Oh thank Christ, he’s okay.” Alive, maybe not okay. That was to be determined. As if aware of being watched, John turned towards the camera, took a minute to find it, and when he saw it, he smiled and waved. Then he did something very unusual. He blew the camera a kiss. Did he know she was watching him? If Mycroft heard the soft, strangled sound Scotty made, he said nothing. But he did smile, so he obviously heard it. Scotty tracked John through the cameras until they came up on Camp Bastion, which looked about as she had expected it to after an attack like that.

“Oh my god.” She leaned against the window, “Look at that.”

_“This is the disgusting truth of war, my dear. I’m afraid most of us never see this, and I’m sorry you have to.”_

“No, Uncle Mike. John’s alive. He’s okay, I think. God, it’s unreal, though.” She saw the damaged areas and wondered where on earth John had been when everything went to hell. He couldn’t have been that far from the medical tents, which were the busiest part of the zone right now. Between sorting wounded and dead from the attack and treating new incoming wounded from the same, and making repairs to keep the hospital running at least marginally well, the hospital compound was a hive of activity.

 

Well, at least they didn’t come empty-handed. Mycroft had picked up four loads of medical relief gear in Kandahar and had flown it in on their chopper and another three aside. She was amazed that resources had been allotted and mobilized so quickly but figured that six hours was enough time for some emergency protocol to be put into place for aid supplies to be stocked properly and set aside for pick-up. They did a full swing-around of the base before landing in designated zones on the airfield. Scotty unbuckled her flight-harness and stashed her laptop in the time it took the pilot to land, and she was out the minute the doors were pulled open by armed soldiers. They were expected, but the look she got when she barreled past a couple of Marines carrying rifles was memorable.

“Sorry!” She called over her shoulder, looking for…someone. He was here, she’d seen him, now…where? Where, where, where?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pssst: John Watson's okay. I promise. He features heavily in the next chapter.  
> ::  
> Scotty calls Mycroft "Uncle Mike" out of old habit and out of respect. Calling him by his first name seems a little strange to her, and she's not comfortable calling him "Dad" or "Papa".


	4. Afghanistan: John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the attack Scotty witnessed from London, some five thousand miles away from Afghanistan, John Watson is curious about the mysterious phone-call that gave him enough warning to get out of the hospital tents before things went to Hell. Who was that? How did they know his name? Why did they sound so concerned? Questions to be answered, and John needs to learn to be a bit more careful what, exactly, he wishes for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from John's POV. John Watson, meet Scotty Hudson.

* * *

Now, if someone had asked John Watson how he survived the attack on Camp Bastion, he’d be happy to admit it was an angel. His angel. Some distant, disembodied voice belonging to someone very clever with surveillance cameras.

“Get out.” She’d said. Get out, he had. Armed to protect himself against God alone knew what was out there, and he’d walked out of the hospital and into a trap. He was okay, banged up and bruised, but he was alive. At the moment, he was patrolling the base, visiting each of the areas hit by the attack. This wasn’t just one person, this was…several. It made him so angry to think that the enemy was getting clever like that, and he wondered how long surveillance had been going on of the base, they had known exactly where to strike.

“Hey, Cap!” One of his guys yelled, “We’ve got incoming!” John looked up at the sound of rotor-blades and shaded his eyes. An EC-145 and three Lynxes. That was help nobody had asked for. He called out to the air-control tower and told them to give those birds clearance to land. They were carrying aid supplies, he would bet the next poker game. As the small fleet came around for landing, John broke into a sprint. He was over by the motor-pool at the moment. Running was a bad idea, but he didn’t care. When he got to the airfield, the choppers had landed and their cargos were being unloaded. From the EC-145, there was a burst of commotion, a flash of bright colour. From between the Marines who had gone to assist, one of the passengers emerged into the open in a surge of motion. Female, young, Westerner. Caucasian? Probably, he couldn’t tell from where he stood. She wore an unusual combination of native dress, wearing a keffiyeh scarf over the hijab, which had slipped a bit, and firaq partug. As she turned in a circle, getting her bearings in a very unusual, foreign place, it slipped off completely and she stopped her turn facing John dead-on. She didn’t see him, but he saw her as she lifted the keffiyeh, a rather distinctive blue-white-black patterned scarf, to cover her face for a moment. With her hijab down, she used the keffiyeh instead. Smart girl to keep herself covered like that. Not that any of John's people would really care either way, but the cultural awareness was nice to see. He got the feeling she had never been anywhere like Afghanistan, and yet...and yet. God, she was  _young_ , though. Pretty, almost too young, but he suspected the girl knew her business and woe unto the unfortunate soul who tried to tell her what to do.

Behind her came another passenger from the EC-145. This one, John knew he was government. In fact, John had no problem recognizing the man in the neat custom-tailored three-piece suit and tightened one hand on the strap of his rifle. If he had Mycroft Holmes’s people to thank for keeping _him_ alive, he’d be happy to kiss whoever had told him to run. It had never occurred to him that the mysterious voice on his phone might just have been one of Mycroft’s agents. He wasn’t that surprised to see Mycroft, he always seemed to pop up when you weren’t expecting him. But this time, the pompous government lackey came with gifts John was happy to accept. He radioed for more help to move the crates of medical equipment and water and stayed put. He would give the porters time to clear the cargo before he made any forays to shake hands with Mycroft Holmes. John, standing at ease with his hands behind his back, made a face as abused muscles objected, again, to having no real rest. 

He had been pulled from the wreckage fairly quickly, and just as rapidly had been diagnosed with a sprained wrist (NOT broken, thank Christ) and a Grade 2 concussion. He probably shouldn’t be out here, but no one had the heart to tell him otherwise. And really, he felt okay. A little dizzy, a little nauseous, but nothing terrible. He knew what a Grade 3 concussion felt like, ta, and this sure wasn’t it. He had never lost consciousness, but his symptoms had lasted two hours.

It had been seven hours since the attack, he had rested but never slept, there was too much to do. Messing with the edge of the wrist-brace they had slapped on him with stern warnings not to overdo it and turn it into a fracture, John watched the porters. One of the commanders had appeared from somewhere and was talking to Holmes and his young companion, John had no idea what her exact role in this was. His name must have come up, somehow, because Cecil Langdon turned, spotted John, and pointed him out. Holmes got eyes on him and he swore the man smiled as he turned to his companion and whispered something to her. He couldn’t hear the exact words, but he heard raised voices. A very clear “Where?!” cracked across the airfield and both Holmes and Langdon turned and pointed at John, who was honestly wondering what was going on. He got an unexpected answer when the girl in blue suddenly broke into view from between the adults, barely remembering to apologize, saw him, stopped dead in her tracks for a minute, and then…it happened.

“John!” A half-strangled shout of his name, a blur of blue motion, he barely had time to brace himself before his arms were full. “That’s the second time you’ve done that to me, you bastard, just in the last forty-eight hours! I hope you’re happy!”

“Holy shit!” Now he recognized her! “Scotty?”

“Please don’t be mad at me!” She had said those very same words to him before, and very recently. Three days ago? Four days ago? When had he spoken to Scotty Hudson last? Very recently, he remembered the conversation.

“Oh my god. Scotty.” John couldn’t have been angry with Scotty if he tried to be, not right now. Despite the ache in his body and the sway of compromised equilibrium, John hugged her as tight as he could. Two years he’d been writing letters and exchanging phone-calls with Scotty Hudson, saddened by her story and angered by the evidence he saw on video-calls. Bruising, broken bones, hidden evidence of rape that she told him about because he made her tell him the truth. Stuck in a third-world country thousands of miles away and helpless to give her more than empty platitudes or do more than working his fury out on the dummy-bags in the gym or a few laps around the track.

“Oh, sweetheart, what the hell are you doing in Afghanistan?”

“Saving your sorry British butt.” She didn’t look at him, “It’s been a bad couple of days, John, I’ve never been so worried.”

“Saving…excuse me?”

“Who the fuck do you think called you seven hours ago?”

“Oh my god. Was that you, Scotty?” That phone call? That was _her_?

“Of course it was me! I watched it happen!”

“How?”

“Cameras. I hacked six of the base’s cameras a couple months ago, it’s how I know you’re doing okay between our letters and phone calls.”

“You…hacked surveillance cameras?”

“Is that not good?”

“Scotty Hudson!”

“I am not sorry!”

“Don’t be. Christ, you saved my life, kiddo.” He pushed her back at arm’s length to get a look at her, “Let me get a look at you, then, Jesus. Christ, you’re skinnier in person. Scotty.”

“What?”

“Please tell me you’re not in Seattle anymore?”

“Nope. Living in London now.”

“Oh, thank god.” John pulled the hijab up to cover her hair properly, “What happened to your uncle?”

“He’s going away for a very, very long time once they get the warrants worked out.”

“What’d you do?”

“Might’ve called in a tip on him. Might’ve dumped 750 gigs of stuff onto his hard-drive remotely.”

“Stuff?” John raised an eyebrow. Was his pen-pal a hacker? Not that he would mind, or anything, but…really?

“Underage porn.”

“Oh, for…”

“You asked!”

“I’m sorry I did! Jesus, where did you get that kind of thing? Do I even want to know?”

“Plausible deniability if I don’t tell you.”

“My god. You’re a hacker, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“That’s…useful, isn’t it?”

“Very. How do you think I knew where you were?”

“Thanks for that phone-call, love. Saved my sorry arse, didn’t it?”

“Sort of. What did you do to yourself?” She had noticed the brace. “Nothing broken, is it?”

“No, thankfully.” He let her handle the brace, knowing she would be careful with it. After inspecting the brace, she looked up at him.

“How’s your head?”

“About as expected after surviving a blast.”

“Grade 1 or Grade 2?”

“Grade 2.”

“Oh my god.” A small crack in the mask, and John wondered how she hadn’t cried before.

“Scotty, don’t. I’m okay. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine! And I had to watch, John! Do you have any idea how awful it’s been? Hours going over footage, looking for any sign you made it! It’s not fine!”

“Did you really come all the way out here just to make sure I wasn’t dead?” He pushed her towards a low-sitting wall and got her to sit down, kneeling between her legs, “Scotty. Look at me, sweetie.”

“What?”

“Why are you here? Why Bost? Why Afghanistan?”

“Because it’s you, and you’re the only friend I have.” She lifted her head and looked at him properly.

“Oh, Scotty.” If only that wasn’t true, but it was, and it was terrible.

“It’s so awful, worrying all the time.”

“I don’t like making you worry, love, but it’s nice to know someone out there cares about me.”

“I wish you could just…come home. No more of this madness.” She sniffled, “But you’d get bored, and that’s not right.” John sighed and leaned forward until he met resistance. Scotty went very still but stayed relaxed. Not calm, she was crying already, but relaxed. After what felt like an eternity, she moved and one hand landed on the back of his neck. None of this felt real, at all, but it was and that broke John’s heart more than if it had been a dream.

 

Until he’d gotten Scotty’s misplaced letter, there hadn’t been anyone John talked to or cared about. That letter had been the beginning of something beautiful and one of John’s most cherished friendships. All of his guys teased him about Scotty, but she was kind of their unofficial little sister. Bill Murray had told him just yesterday that if Scotty needed help, he knew people who knew people who knew other people. John had laughingly turned him down, despite knowing Murray was dead serious. And now, impossibly, Scotty had come to him. John had no idea what to do, but Scotty had come to get him. Something wet landed on his collar and John sighed, pulling back a bit to look up.

“Scotty?”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t ask you to do that, it’s not right.”

“It means you care, sweetie, and that’s more than anyone who’s blood to me does.” He rubbed her side, trying to calm her down, frustrated that even under layers of clothing he could still feel her ribs. “You’re allowed to be a bit selfish.”

“Not like this, I’m not! This is your job, it’s what you do! I can’t just ask you to walk away from it, that’s wrong!”

“But, y’know, there’s a _right_ way to do it.” He smiled, “Might take a bit longer, but there’s a right way to do it.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“But…”

“It’s alright, Scotty.” John got up, a little slower than usual thanks to his morning, “We do unexpected things for loved ones. You’re the closest to a family I’ve got, love, and that means something. It’s important. Your feelings matter.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t…think I’ve ever mattered. Not since my dad died.” Scotty looked so heartbroken. John dried her tears with a corner of the multi-coloured keffiyeh around her neck, he recognized it now as one he had sent her as a gift, and pulled her to her feet. Behind them, he heard the EC-145’s engines warming up. A short visit indeed, stopping only long enough to drop off some badly needed supplies and give John and Scotty some unexpected time together. Scotty didn’t want to leave, but staying was not an option for her. And John couldn’t leave yet. So, this would just have to do for now.

“Come on, sweetie.” He put an arm around her and they went back to the chopper together.

“Now what?”

“Well, you go back to London, I stay here, and with any luck at all, I’ll be home sooner than later. This mess might have helped that.” He smiled and pulled her close, “I’m glad you came out, Scotty. I didn’t think I’d get a chance to see you before they sent me home for good.”

“Just…come home at all, okay? Alive, please?”

“I’ll try, but no promises.” And he couldn’t make any promises. This was a bad place to be.

“Okay. Just…be careful, please? Don’t get shot?”

“I’ll try.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I promise I’ll try.” The door of the EC-145 was open when they got to the chopper, and John knew this was it.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I…try something?”

“If you can make it quick, you’ve gotta go.” He could tell the pilot was anxious to get back to Kandahar, it was already twilight and full dark would fall soon. Flying at night was risky anyway, but this was suicidal.

“How long could it take to kiss someone goodbye?”

“Depends.”

“Be careful, John, please.” Scotty hugged him tight and leant up a couple of inches. “See you in London next time.” It wasn’t the first time he had kissed someone, but it was the first in a while.  And Scotty was barely seventeen, he shouldn’t be doing this. But it didn’t…feel wrong. She wasn’t asking for a commitment, she was asking for something to remind them both that somewhere else in this fucked up world was one other person who mattered and who cared. It was careful and chaste, but he learned that Scotty wore cherry chapstick. For some reason, that made him so ridiculously happy. Little things. Small details that didn't matter to anyone else.

“Happy Birthday to me,” Scotty whispered as she dropped back on her heels.

“Hmm?”

“It’s April 1st, Captain.” She smiled at him.

“Oh my god, you’re seventeen, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“God bless you, Scotty Hudson!” John laughed and hugged her again, deciding another birthday kiss was in order. “Go on, let me know when you get home to London.”

“Absolutely. And, um, it might take a bit to get here, but keep your eye on the post. I sent you something before I left Seattle.”

“You’re an angel, Scotty.” He gave her a boost into the chopper. Once she was buckled in, he closed the door of the chopper and backed out of range to kneel at the edge of the LZ, watching until the guide-lights were gone. So, Scotty was seventeen now. But…that meant it was his birthday, too. He’d kind of forgotten about that in the madness of the last couple of days. Shaking his head, John headed back towards the hospital. Things were stable and Bill Murray kicked him out, threatened to put a gun to his head if he had to.

“You need to sleep, boss. Give your poor body a break.”

“Guess it’s safe to sleep, isn’t it?” He smiled at his on-again-off-again boyfriend, “Did you get the aid supplies squared away?”

“Yeah, that was the first thing we did. Where’d it come from?”

“Helps to know people who matter.” He adjusted the strap of his rifle.

“Why’re you smiling like you won the lottery?” Murray had noticed, John had wondered if he would.

“Are you jealous, Bill?”

“Shut it, Watson. You were mad as a barn-cat got its tail stepped on, all the noise included, and now you’re all pleased with yourself. What’s up?”

“Did you see the choppers?”

“Yeah, kind of hard to miss ‘em.”

“Did you notice the government bird?”

“Govern…ment…the EC-145?”

“Yep.”

“That’s a private bird, belongs to the government, though.”

“Yep.”

“You know somebody?”

“Yep.” He patted Murray on the shoulder and headed for his tent, “Thanks, Billy!”

“Hang on!” Murray wasn’t stupid and ran after him. “What’s going on, John? You were over there for a while.”

“I’ve got an angel, Billy.” He dug into his pocket for a picture he kept there, he also kept one in his helmet. It was a more recent picture of Scotty. She had sent it to him a few days before their last Skype-call, it was one of the rare times she was legitimately smiling. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. It was a text message, with a photograph attached. It was from Scotty, she’d sent him a new picture. This one was his favourite, not because it was the most current, but because the smile on her face was honest. It had been taken in the EC-145, she was wearing that goofy headset. But she was smiling. Her eyes were a little bloodshot, testimony to her recent tears, but she looked so happy.

“Okay, you just went sappy on me. What is going on?” Murray raised an eyebrow.

“I’m the luckiest son of a bitch in Afghanistan, Bill.” He couldn’t help it, “Keep forgetting I’ve got a girl who cares about me.”

“Your cute pen-pal? How’s she doing?” Murray held the door-flap of John’s tent for him. “You’re not gonna tell her about this mess, are you?”

“I don’t have to.” He smiled and ducked into his gloriously-untouched tent. It was stupid luck none of the strikes had hit the barracks tents. There were little signs of Scotty Hudson all over his tent and she’d never ever set foot here. That might change if he didn’t get his discharge packet worked out soon. That generally took about six months or so, longer if they were back-logged or just didn’t care.

“What’d you mean you don’t have to?”

“Because she’s already been here.” He handed his phone to Murray, “She was on that chopper, Bill. She flew out here…from London.”

“She was _here_?”

“Just for a drop-off. They couldn’t stay.” He sat down on his cot and untied his boots, harder with one wrist in a brace.

“Oh, stop it, you fool. Let me.” Murray rolled his eyes and dropped to his knees between John’s feet. “You’re a selfish bastard, John Watson, I hope you know that.”

“You knew exactly where I was, Bill, you could have introduced yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know she was here!” Murray shot him a dirty look. “For all that poor girl has been through, she’s beautiful. What is she doing in an awful place like this?”

“Came out here for me.” He shrugged and watched Murray work, “That’s the only reason she came here.”

“Wait a second. You’re telling me a sixteen-year-old girl from Seattle, Washington, who you only know because the post fucked up on a couple of letters and hers got dropped on your desk, somehow found the time, money, and resources to fly out to Middle-of-Nowhere Afghanistan looking for _your_ sorry arse?”

“Exactly.”

“Jesus, Watson, you have all the fucking luck, don’t you?”

“And, by the way, she’s seventeen.” He couldn’t help it. Not to mention a rather fine kisser. For someone who had no experience, she’d gotten the hang of it quickly.

“If you didn’t have a Grade 2 concussion, Watson, I’d put you to rights, y’know that, right?” Murray muttered, tossing his boots off to one side. John snickered and leaned his elbows on his knees.

“You feel threatened by a seventeen-year-old girl, Lieutenant?”

“Damn straight I do!”

“For some reason, I don’t think “straight” is exactly the word to use here.” He chuckled, “Take it easy, Murray.”

“Tosser.”

“She asked me to.”

“Why?”

“Because she watched it happen, watched me disappear from sight and didn’t see me again until they got here.” He tried to imagine how awful it must have been for Scotty watching everything unfold in London, helpless to do anything except warn him to run. They must have gotten on the plane almost as soon as it happened and spent the past seven hours en route to Afghanistan. He knew where each of those six cameras was located, and from now on, he would always make sure to stay within sight of them or signal if he had to leave. There was some comfort knowing he had someone watching him like that, tracking him.

“She…what?”

“She’s been clever with surveillance cameras and has been tracking me for a while.”

“She hacked military surveillance cameras?”

“It’s apparently a thing she can do.”

“God, your girlfriend is useful, isn’t she?”

“She’s not my girlfriend, Bill.” John rolled his eyes and stood up to ditch a couple of layers, “It’s her birthday, mine was yesterday, and she asked me to. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Murray shrugged and got up, “See you in the morning.”

“Unfortunately.” He followed Murray to the door and locked up once his lieutenant was gone.

“Hey, Murray? Keep it to yourself, will you? About Scotty being here?”

“Why would I tell anyone?”

“Because you’re the worst camp-gossip I’ve ever met. Langdon knows about her, but that’s as far as I want knowledge of her coming out here to go, alright?” He eyed up his lieutenant, “I’m not afraid to take your rank for something like that, Murray. We might be friends and more than, but her safety is my first and sole concern until I know she’s back home where she belongs.”

“You’re serious about this girl, aren’t you?”

“I’ve always been serious about Scotty Hudson. Who may not be who she says she is.” He would have to do some research later, but he got the feeling Scotty wasn’t a Hudson at all. “Good night, Murray.”

“‘Night, boss.”  Murray waved and went off on his own. John had to trust him to keep his mouth shut. He sent a quick text to Scotty to wish her good night, wherever she was.

* * *

 


	5. Afghanistan - London: John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson finds a way home to London after his papers come through thanks to Mycroft Holmes, and things get...interesting. To say the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from John's POV. We'll be seeing things from his side of things for a while, I think. 
> 
> He makes it home alright, I promise.

* * *

About two months later, John was buried in work when Cecil Langdon came to find him.

“Watson!”

“Yes, sir?” He looked up from his work.

“You got a minute?”

“I’ve got several if you need ‘em, sir.” He returned to what he was doing, “If you can give me three, I’ll be right out, sir.”

“No rush.” Langdon shrugged, withdrawing to wait outside the treatment area.

“What was that all about?” Murray whispered from the other side of the table.

“I have no idea.” He shrugged and focused on the task before him. “Something important, did you see the file he had with him?”

“Yeah, I did.” Murray made a face. “Hey, I’ve got this. You go on, figure out what Langdon wanted.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely. We’ve got this, you did your bit. Go on.” Murray gave him a significant look. It was important if Langdon had come looking for him, the what was the unknown. Trusting his team to do their jobs, John stepped back from the table and took a minute to take off and discard the protective gear and wash up. Langdon had found him at the tail-end of a procedure, so he could walk away if he had to. It had taken the better part of the morning and some of the prior night, but the young soldier on that table would live. He’d go home to his family and start a long, painful process of learning how to walk again. There was no sign of Langdon outside, but John had to go back to his office anyway and suspected he would find his superior there. Sure enough, he found Langdon sitting by his desk, minding his own business.

“What can I do for you, Major?” John asked, making sure to close the door of his office, going so far as to lock it. Whatever business this was, it was probably best if no one interrupted them.

“I’m sorry for pulling you away from something so urgent, but…this came by my desk with your name on it. I figured I’d better see it to you sooner than later.” Langdon set the file John had noticed earlier on the desk and let him pick it up. “You must know some pretty important people, Watson. That kind of thing can take nine months.”

“Hang on.” He got a look at the face-sheet, “Is this…”

“Yeah, it is. You submitted yours less than a month ago.”

“Shit.” He pulled out the papers and looked them over carefully, trying to understand what he was looking at. He had submitted a discharge packet, looking for a standard discharge as due his station. He was probably looking at an honourable discharge, or discharge with honour. Honourable discharge, it looked like. There was a note attached, handwritten. He pulled the note off and read it to himself. It was from Mycroft Holmes. There was a part of the note that got his attention and he had to re-read it:

 

**Your long acquaintance with my daughter is the most important thing she has, it was most of her doing that got us to Afghanistan two months ago. For a long time, you were all she had to turn to, the only person to talk to. She has not asked this of me, but after our brief meeting at Camp Bastion following the April Fool’s Day bombings, it became very clear to me that to lose you would break Scotty’s heart. So, with some liberties taken, I have taken it upon myself to arrange for your expedited discharge from the Army.**

**I would ask that you refrain from informing my daughter of this, as I would like to surprise her with your safe homecoming to London. If you require any assistance once you are here, I am at your disposal. I refuse to leave the likes of you to the mercies of the Office of Veterans Affairs, so please do not hesitate to reach out to me for housing or employment, as I have access to both very readily for you. If you seek further employ or work of any manner, I have work I think would be of interest to you.**

**Ever respectfully yours, Mycroft Holmes.**

 

“You have to be kidding me.” He turned to the finalized discharge packet and read through it. Sure enough, everything was in order. Upon his return to London, and it would be the last time he did so, John would have access to a full pension (whatever that was worth these days in a place like Metropolitan London), housing and employment assistance separate from whatever Holmes was offering (John suspected Holmes was making the better offer), and any counseling he might find necessary. At this rate, occasional PTSD nightmares were about the sum-total of what he had to concern himself with. But what he was confused and slightly concerned by was the way Holmes spoke of Scotty. “My daughter”, he said. Scotty wasn’t Mycroft’s daughter, was she? Christ help them all if that was true, the man who’d hurt Scotty would never see the light of day again. And any who had designs on her in the future would be hard-put to prove themselves worthy. John respected Mycroft Holmes far more than most people of his acquaintance, but the idea that he’d been friends with the man’s daughter for all this time was a little frightening.

Being separated as they were, there had never been more than a few endearments spoken between them, maybe once or twice Scotty had said she loved him, but it had never been more than the platonic affection of siblings. But then she had asked him for a kiss, just a little something to remember, and a turning-point had presented itself. In the two months since then, the different ways they said “I love you” to each other had become more frequent. But Scotty deserved so much better, she could have anyone she wanted. He was a friend, and content to remain a friend.

“Watson?” The sound of someone calling his name reminded John that he wasn’t alone at the moment and he realized that at some point he had either sat down or someone had sat him down.

“Sorry, did you say something?”

“Son, you just turned six shades of dead white. I’ve never seen someone that colour who wasn’t already dead to begin with.” It was Langdon, he looked awfully concerned, “Are you alright?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I lied to you, sir.” He looked at the papers still clutched in his hand.

“What’s that then?”

“I’m going home.” He smoothed the papers on his desk, holding onto the note. “You may read them if you’d like, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely, sir. After all, this directly affects your staff, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Langdon took the papers and read them over while John got up, folding the note into his pocket, and began to take down his office. There wasn’t much in here that was his, maybe a box’s worth of things. He took his field-kit, making sure it was fully stocked from stores. He’d restocked it yesterday after patrol, so it was good to go. As he debated what to do with his computers, a text message came through from Mycroft.

 

**Don’t concern yourself with the security of your private data on your computers. Scotty has been systematically backing everything up remotely for you for quite some time. – MH**

“What the…” He looked around the office, then caught sight of the camera in the corner.

“Watson?” Langdon looked up from the discharge packet.

“Cameras.” He snickered, “It’s alright, but we’re being watched.” Hopefully not by Scotty. Langdon looked up and when he saw the camera, he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“Standard surveillance, sir.” He tapped out a reply to Mycroft.

 

**She’s not with you right now, is she? She doesn’t know about this? – JW**

**Scotty is not anywhere near her cameras. She is assisting The Met with a rather tricky case and proving herself quite useful to them. – MH**

**You’re awfully cavalier about loaning out your daughter to The Met for whatever needs doing, Mr Holmes. – JW**

He couldn’t help needling the older man just a little bit. If The Met needed someone like Scotty, he could only imagine what kind of dirty work was being done.

 

**I am watching their every move as we speak, Captain, I do not take my daughter’s involvement in a child-pornography sting very lightly at all. – MH**

**And yet you’ve allowed her to assist on potentially triggering case-work. – JW**

John left it unspoken that he would have something not-nice to say to Mycroft if some part of this mad exercise backfired on them and Scotty got hurt, not that the man would be kind on himself if that happened. He imagined Scotty being used as bait, possibly willing bait, to lure in a potential paedophile and butter him up before the axe came down hard.

 

**I have given her to the care of Greg Lestrade, he’s heading up this operation. He and his people are good folk. Perhaps not the most intelligent of the lot, but between Scotty and my brother assisting them, they may have a dim hope of bringing this particular bad seed to justice. – MH**

**Did you know, Scotty is very outspoken about protection and rights for abuse and rape survivors? – MH**

John snorted and slung the strap of his kit across his chest as he left the office, taking the papers from Langdon.

“Keys, Watson?”

“Here.” He handed them over, “Just leave everything else where it is. I have what I want out of there and my computer is set for the IT guys to wipe it.”

“You don’t have any personal data to transfer?”

“Nope. That’s been taken care of.” He looked over his shoulder, “I’m not going to miss this place. The people, yes, the work, sometimes, but not the locale.”

“Where are you off to next, then?”

“London. Merry Olde for me.” He shrugged, “I’ll worry about housing and job-hunting when I get there, but I get the feeling that won’t be a problem.”

“What kind of connections do you have, Watson? Jesus Christ.”

“I’m not sure precisely what he does, but this particular contact of mine is in Intelligence. MI6, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You know people in Section Six?”

“At least one.” It wouldn’t surprise him, at all, to find out that Mycroft was one of the lauded, secretive double-oh’s, highly-trained agents licensed to kill in the name of Queen & Country. It would explain so much about him.

“Damn. What’s he do?”

“I have no idea. And that’s probably better for all of us.” He waved to a couple of people as he left the hospital. “Wonder if I can sneak out of here, out under the radar. Dead of night escape.”

“Would you want to?”

“I’m not that close with my guys, they like me but I don’t have many friends.”

“You’d better at least tell Murray, he’s on you like a hound on a scent. We’d have him going AWOL if you tried to skip town without letting him know.”

“I think he already knows, but yeah, I’ll tell Murray at least. He can tell the rest of them.”

“I don’t suppose you’d stand for a passing-out ceremony, would you?”

“No, sir, I would not. Not out here. I’ll get a proper one in London, but the sooner I get home, the better.” He found one of the pictures of Scotty he carried, this was a brand new one from about a week ago, and it was so obvious she was doing much better. Her smiles weren’t hiding unspeakable pain anymore. This picture was one he had snuck off on her during a Skype-chat, so the lighting was a little odd and she wore that headset of hers, but it was a good one. He rubbed the edges of the photograph, thinking on how soon he could see Scotty. Probably would have to wait until after this last case she was on closed down, which would take a while.

“Where’d your head go, Watson?”

“Missing my girl, sir. That’s all.” He looked at Langdon, who had known about Scotty almost since the beginning.

“You’ve got a girl worth missing in the first place, Watson. I don’t blame you. How’s she doing now?”

“It’s almost like she’s a different person, sir.” He shook his head, “She keeps herself pretty busy, though.”

“She in school?”

“No, I don’t…I don’t think so. She might be, to make up for the time she got shorted on when she left Seattle.” He didn’t think Scotty was the kind of girl who would do particularly well in a traditional university setting, but maybe Mycroft could talk her into it? She’d go for computer sciences in a heartbeat, but she might turn out to be a bit too smart for them. Langdon chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. When they got back to his tent, he was not surprised to find Murray and a couple of his guys waiting outside.

“Looks like word got around.”

“Pure speculation at this point, sir, but Murray’s not stupid.” John shrugged and pocketed his phone and the picture.

“Hope you weren’t thinking about packing up and sneaking out without saying something, Captain.” Murray scolded.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Billy.” He rolled his eyes and nodded to Langdon, who offered to wait. Once inside, he split up the pack-up duties between the four who had reported to his tent unbidden but not unwelcome. He left behind all of the weaponry except two belt-knives and his P226. Every uniform-piece was carefully packed away, he made sure it all got collected, ammo-cases were sorted and he emptied the chamber and clips for the P226. Murray helped him pack up the personals, his laptop and the likes. What was left of Scotty’s last care-package was free game, but that tea was all his. She had sent two boxes of tea, a pack of black liquorice nibs, and a batch of homemade biscuits courtesy of her adopted grandmother, who enjoyed baking and was more than happy to share her bounty with Scotty’s friends overseas. There had been new socks and other necessities, as well. It was all deeply appreciated. He left one set of fatigues out, the rest got packed up, and after _everything_ was packed, he thanked the lads and told them they could spread the word, but he was leaving and the quieter it was, the better.

“You got it, boss. See you state-side, then.”

“Thanks, lads.” He watched the threesome go on their merry way, one of them carrying the remains of Scotty’s care-package. John had the tea and liquorice, the biscuits and socks were free game. He packed everything else into a deployment backpack and decided it was as good a time as any to get out of dodge. Murray took his bags and he went with Langdon to turn in the rest of his kit. Langdon gave him one box of ammo for the pistol. Since he wasn’t retiring and he wasn’t getting a Medical Discharge, he would be automatically enlisted in the Reserves, so having his gun wouldn’t be a problem. He just had to be smart about using it. Not to mention, he was looking at a very likely future with MI6 anyway and he’d much rather have his own weapon than depend on something they were going to give him. That left the charming job of finding a way out of this hell.

A convoy was leaving for Kandahar in less than an hour, John sweet-talked his way onto the lead truck and even offered to do the driving. No one else seemed to mind, the poor specialist who was the assigned driver looked about dead on his feet anyway from exhaustion and was _more_ than happy to let someone else take the wheel. Langdon retrieved his kit, told him to send it all back with the next convoy, and wished him luck. Suiting up didn’t take long, and John tucked that picture of Scotty into the brim-lining of his helmet before he buckled the chin-strap. With any luck, they’d get to Kandahar and he’d be homeward-bound before dark. Doing a line-walk of the convoy, he made sure his gear was secure in the lead truck and gave the two-minute warning.

“Spotters up top, call sightings!” He looked at the sky, “And pray our luck holds us to Kandahar. Let’s go, lads!”

“Roger that, Captain!” There was an organized scramble and they were underway in no time. Despite knowing Scotty wasn’t on her cameras, John still signalled. It was old habit, he might as well do it one more time. There was something bittersweet about it this time, he just hoped they wouldn't run into any serious trouble.

 

As they approached the outskirts of Maiwand, which was the approximate halfway point of the drive from Lashkar Gah to Kandahar, John tightened his grip on the steering wheel and prayed. He hated this part of the drive, so much. This was one of the ambush-points, and he’d been caught here more times than he cared to remember.

“Alright, lads, keep a sharp eye out.” He called to the spotters. It was usually right on the outskirts, on either side, that they had trouble. They were a small convoy, six trucks, carrying water and fuel to Kandahar, and a sweet target for any bored insurgents in the area. He hated driving convoys, but when it came to the wire, John didn’t trust many other people to handle the trucks properly on the badly-paved highways and usually ended up doing it himself for his peace of mind and everyone else’s.

 

:-:

 

Because he was hyper-aware, and desperate to get home alive, John saw the trip-wire in the road before anyone else did.

“Shit!” He yanked the wheel, “Hold on! Hold on!” They barely cleared it, and he sent word back to the other trucks to be careful. Suddenly, the bridge trembled and the truck rocked.

“Damn it!” He looked in the side-mirror just in time to see the fourth truck flip off the bridge. Up ahead, two pick-up trucks blocked the bridge. He slammed on the brakes and ducked as the first hail of bullets slammed into the wind-screen.

“Go! Go!” Kicking open his door, John grabbed the rifle under his seat. Ducking behind the door, he took aim at enemies he couldn’t see. He couldn’t go very far, pinned against the bridge by the truck and the gunfire. Diving back into the truck, he yelled for a radio.

“Next truck back, sir!” One of his yelled. He nodded, checked his rifle, and made a break for it. Their radio was out, so he tried again. The only functioning radio in the whole caravan was in the fourth truck, which was at the bottom of the ravine. John looked over the side and gauged the distance. Too far to jump from here. Most trucks, if he remembered right, had belay-gear for Search & Rescue exercises, and he tried to ignore the close bullets as he dug for that kit in the third truck.

“What are you doing, sir!” One of the Marines yelled.

“Getting our radio back! Cover me!” He grabbed the kit and hid under the truck to suit up. “God, I hate abseiling!” Something glanced off his helmet as he clipped the rope in, and he ducked. He wasn’t getting shot out here if it was the last goddamned thing he did. Thankfully, it was only a twenty-foot drop to the bottom, but he was a sitting duck all the way down. Making short work of the rope, John unlatched and ran as soon as his boots hit the soft sand. No traction, he kept sinking. Bullets smacked into the ground around him, but he finally reached the truck. He pulled out the poor sods inside, they were all dead, and dug for that damned radio. As soon as he found it, he used the truck for cover and called out a mayday to their location.

“We need air-strikes and choppers! Now! We’re pinned!” He screamed, “We’re sitting ducks!” It was an excruciating six-minute wait for help, he got a couple of Apaches and two Lynxes. That would do it. As soon as the perimeter was secured, he got help moving the bodies. The five remaining trucks were still driveable, so John sent the dead and wounded back to base and got back in the driver’s seat. The Apache pilots offered to stick around, seeing as they might be useful. John didn’t mind the back-up at all, and kept an eye on the Apache that led out just above the roofline of the buildings.

 

It took two hours to get to Kandahar from Maiwand, which put the whole trip closer to four hours, and when they _got_ there, John made his apologies and sat through a brief exam. They were not keeping him here, and he put up enough of a fight that the doctors finally kicked him out. Collecting his gear, which had survived the attack in-tact, John boarded a transport chopper to Kabul, where he caught a flight to London with a stop in Istanbul. He looked awful, but that’s kind of what happened when you survived an ambush. It was while he was sitting in Istanbul that his phone rang. He answered without looking, there was only one person who would bother calling him.

“This is Watson.”

 _“Oh, thank Christ.”_ It was Mycroft, of course, _“Oh, thank Christ. Where are you?”_

“Cooling my heels in Istanbul and getting dirty looks.”

_“I imagine your appearance may be startling to some. Are you alright?”_

“I’m alive, Mycroft.” He took a deep breath, “Six Marines aren’t.”

_“Your safety is the only thing that matters. I will have a car meet you in London.”_

“Yeah, thanks. You got a place I can stay?”

_“Absolutely.”_

“Good, because I need hot water, a decent bed, and a week to sleep this off.”

 _“I’ll see what I can do for you, Captain.”_ He heard voices in the background.  _“I’m sorry, I must go. I have to speak to my brother’s surgeons.”_

“What happened?”

 _“Scotty is absolutely unharmed, she’s sitting next to me.”_ Which explained why Mycroft hadn’t used his name or his rank. _“She’s shaken, but unharmed. I promise.”_

“God damn it, Mycroft! I told you it was stupid to involve Scotty!” He got a nasty look from a woman sitting nearby, but he just glared at her. He’d been bombed, shot at, and jumped off a bridge to dig through a burning truck full of corpses to get to a radio, she could very kindly fuck off. As his flight was called, he got up, grabbing his stuff, “My flight’s been called. I’ll see you in London, Mycroft.”

 _“Safe travels, sir.”_ Mycroft hung up with him then and he pocketed his phone as he handed over his boarding pass. Once he got to his seat, John popped his headphones in and scrolled to a playlist on his MP3 player. A flight attendant came through and asked if he wanted a drink, he said no thanks. He’d grabbed a bottle of water in the concourse, that was fine for now.

The four hours from Istanbul to London were the longest of John’s life, and it wasn’t until he had cleared through Customs and met Mycroft’s driver, who took one look at him and took a half-step back, that he bothered to relax.

“Where to, sir?”

Wherever Mycroft Holmes is. That’s where you’re taking me. Anything else can wait.”

“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded and got them underway. It was a quiet, tense drive, and John distracted himself by going through pictures of Scotty on his phone. Finally, the car stopped and the driver held the door for him.

“Sir.”

“Tah.” He grabbed his stuff and looked at the underground entrance. Where was he, exactly? The doors leading into the place looked bomb-proof. He shouldered his bags and looked around. Government facility, by the looks, not a clue where. Before he could ask where he was supposed to go, or how he was supposed to get in, the doors opened and Mycroft Holmes emerged. He looked about the same as ever, slightly rumpled and there were lines on his face that hadn’t been there two months ago. He looked tired.

“Mr Holmes.”

“Captain. You look awful.”

“Likewise. How’s your brother?” Not the person he wanted to ask about, but it was only polite.

“He’s fine. A concussion and a broken wrist.”

“That’s all?”

“And twelve stitches for a knife-wound.”

“That’s more like it.”

“This way, Captain. Please.” Indicating the doors behind them.

“After you, sir.” John let him take the lead. Once inside, he passed a checkpoint and followed Mycroft through a warren of hallways until they reached what was the facility’s medical sector.

“Captain, have you received medical attention?”

“Yeah, before I left Kandahar.” He hadn’t gotten much, though, just enough to placate the doctors before they threw him out. The look Mycroft gave him said a lot about the way he looked thirteen hours after the attack and eleven hours after leaving Afghanistan. He snickered.

“Wouldn’t know that looking at me, would you?”

“No. You look rather awful.”

“I walked away when six men get shipped home in boxes next week.” John shook his head.

“You walked away. That’s what matters.”

“Has anyone told Scotty?”

“No, not yet.” Mycroft looked down for a moment. “My brother’s injuries were taken protecting her. The mark got violent and tried to force himself on Scotty. She fought him off, but...”

“Jesus Christ, it’s been a shit day for all of us, hasn’t it?” He ruffled his hair. “You didn’t let the scum get away with it, did you?”

“Oh, no. We did not.” Mycroft’s expression turned violent.

“Good. If I was in better shape, I’d kick the bastard’s arse for you.”

“Come along, Captain.” Mycroft led the way to one of many rooms and left him with a team of doctors, who heard where he’d been thirteen hours ago and looked at him like he’d grown two heads. It didn’t take long, thankfully, and Mycroft pointed him next to a locker room with showers. John was grateful for hot water and a chance to get clean clothes. He took his time, made sure he looked at least halfway presentable, and met Mycroft to reconvene with the rest of their small coven.

“So, where are we?”

“You are currently a guest of Military Intelligence Section Six at the moment. I imagine you feel rather at home here.”

“Explains why they didn’t bat an eyelash when they saw this thing.” He indicated the pistol tucked into the drop-leg holster on his uniform.

“Captain, do you recall what I offered to you?”

“Yes, sir, I absolutely do.” He looked around the busy hallways, thinking he could be very happy here if they would take him.

“Have you thought at all of my offer?”

“Well, the look I got when I told people not to worry about housing or employment post-discharge was memorable. I guess most people lucky enough to walk away from the Army like I did don’t always have that kind of business squared away before they get anywhere near home.” John shrugged, “But, yeah. If you’ve got a place for me, I’m yours for taking.”

“Perhaps I will introduce you to a few of our people.”

“Can I see Scotty? Poor thing’s had a bad go of it like the rest of us have.” And he just wanted to see her again, make her a promise that he would never again be at the mercy of the Army. Maybe someone else, but not the Army. And introductions may not be quite as necessary. More like...reintroductions?

“Of course. This way.” Mycroft did not question, simply led the way to another part of the complex. Along the way, they encountered someone else, the first person outside of the medical team he had seen down here. She looked vaguely familiar, John had the feeling this woman was a force to be reckoned with, possibly a director.

“Ah. Hello, M.”

“Holmes.” The woman smiled at Mycroft, a bit hostile, “I heard about your morning.”

“It could have gone better, but none of ours were killed and any injuries are minimal.”

“To your good fortune. How is your brother?”

“He is going to be insufferable until he’s recovered, I’m afraid, ma’am.”

“Isn’t he always?” The woman’s smile softened a bit. She was apparently familiar with the antics of the brothers. When she noticed John standing calmly at ease next to Mycroft, she didn’t seem that surprised to see an outsider as it was very obvious John was not one of hers. At least not yet.

“Ah. Captain Watson. Welcome home.”

“Ma’am.” He smiled.

“You look rather awful, son.”

“I walked away from an ambush thirteen hours ago, ma’am. I didn’t get thorough medical attention until I reached London. I can’t imagine the number of unsuspecting civilians I frightened between Kabul and London.” John shrugged, as if it was of no difference to him. And really, he didn’t particularly care for the opinions of people who could hardly begin to imagine the true horrors of what he had witnessed every day as part of his service.

“What’s this, then?” M took notice of the brace around his wrist, the same as had been injured two months ago and barely healed when this latest incident occurred. He was lucky it hadn’t been broken, but he did have a Grade 2 sprain this time.

“A Grade 1 sprain reinjured to a Grade 2, ma’am.”

“And what, I do wonder, were you doing when you reinjured yourself?”

“This...most likely would have been either the twenty-foot abseil drop or the burning truck recovery, ma’am.”

“Burning truck recovery?”

“Only functioning radio we had was in a truck that landed in a bled, ma’am.”

“And you took it upon yourself to risk your life across open, unprotected ground, to make a target of yourself, just to recover this radio?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m damn lucky I wasn’t shot. Those bastards are terrible shots most of the time.”

“Apparently.” He’d be damned if she wasn’t smiling.

“Ma’am, I was Special Forces. I’ve got more specialised training than some people have pairs of shoes. I can take a shot from a thousand yards and make the target nine times of ten, ten of ten on a good day. Abseil entry, parachute entry, standard ground-level assault.” He’d broken his ankle the first time he made his qualifying parachute jump, but the second time around he’d made a photo-finish landing. Actually, somewhere in his records, there was a picture someone had taken _of_ that landing. The guys had started calling him Mad Dog Watson after that incident, a lot of them still did. This, apparently, was news to Mycroft, who stared at him, slightly aghast.

“Hmm. Mr Holmes, do you suppose we could use someone with Captain Watson’s skills?” M seemed positively delighted with this new information.

“Y-es, ma’am.”

“Excellent. I look forward to seeing what you’re capable of, Captain.” M offered a hand, “Welcome to MI6.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” John offered her a charming smile as he shook hands with her. “I wasn’t expecting to walk away from one job and right into another one just like it.”

“You wouldn’t have been very well suited to civilian employ, I’m afraid, Captain. We’ll put you to work here.”

“I’ll try to play nice with the other kids.” John wasn’t exactly known for playing by the rules or being nice to other people, and with his experience, it stood to be seen how the rest of them took having a new face around. If anyone tried hazing, he would not be nice about payback. As soon as the director was out of sight, John folded his hands behind his back and chuckled.

“Well, that was the strangest job interview I’ve ever had.”

“She _likes_ you.”

“Does she not usually?”

“Pleasing M is difficult on the best days, impossible on the worst. You’ll learn her moods very quickly, I imagine.”

“I’m a soldier, Holmes, for all intents and purposes, she’s my commanding officer. Believe me, I’ve had my share of bad ones and she’s a joy compared to some of ‘em.” He raised an eyebrow, “Now, before she comes after us, where’s Scotty?”

“This way.” Mycroft headed in one direction and John followed along. “Of course, you will only be listed for training once you have recovered from your recent injuries.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’d be an idiot to jump into training before I was completely healed up.” John wasn’t stupid, he knew how it worked. But with no obligations otherwise, he could bide his time until he healed up enough to be useful to MI6.

They found Scotty in a small but spacious hospital-room with better equipment than he’d seen in a long time. She wasn’t the patient, but she certainly didn’t look very well. The visible bruises were devastatingly familiar to John, and he unconsciously clenched his uninjured hand into a fist at the sight of the injuries she had sustained.

“God damn it.”

“Please don’t frighten her, Captain.”

“It’s not her I take issue with, Mr Holmes. It never will be. The man who hurt that girl this time, had better hope he never meets me. They’ll be finding his body in a week.” He looked at Mycroft, “And anyone who puts that girl in harm’s way, willingly or otherwise, has me to answer to.”

“Naturally.” Mycroft wasn’t stupid, he knew he was among those unspoken ranks. “After you, Captain.” He pushed the door of the room open, indicating that John should go in first. John stepped into the room, moved away from the door to make room for Mycroft to come in, and stood at ease, he seemed to be doing a lot of that around here, taking a minute to study the scene before him. Scotty sat the bed-side watch for Mycroft’s younger brother Sherlock, who was almost exactly five years younger than John. They were well past the four-hour mark, so it was alright for Sherlock to sleep, which he currently was. John quietly moved to the opposite bedside, unwilling to disturb Scotty or Sherlock, and studied the familiar read-outs. It looked about standard for someone who’d been through what Sherlock had seen.

“What are you doing?”

“The socially acceptable and acknowledged part of my job.” He didn’t even look at Mycroft, “Still a doctor, y’know.”

“A rather dangerous one, it seems.”

“You had no idea, did you?”

“No. I knew the records existed, but I never looked into them, it wasn’t important.”

“I’m a little disappointed in you, Mr Holmes.” He looked up across the bed at Scotty, who was asleep, “Trusting a complete stranger with your daughter like that?”

“I knew what was necessary to trust you, nothing more than that.”

“Do one thing for me, Holmes.”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Don’t ever put your daughter in harm’s way like that again. I’ll be happy to get her out of trouble if I have to, but you won’t like me afterwards.”

“I can’t stop her from involving herself, but perhaps I can keep her from taking such an active role in a case.”

“Do what you have to.” Done with Sherlock, who barely twitched, John went around the bed to Scotty, who looked so very young as she slept. She didn’t stir when he touched her, and he wondered if she had been sedated. Her vitals were stable and steady, aside from her sleep-state, everything was completely normal.

“She’s stable.”

“We had to give her Thorazine to calm her down.”

“Figures.” He carefully ran his fingers through Scotty’s hair.

“Take her home, Captain. She shouldn’t be here.” Mycroft sounded sad, almost remorseful for the trouble Scotty and Sherlock had gotten into. “My driver will take you where you need to go.”

“Okay.” He had extremely limited range-of-motion in his right wrist, but he would carry Scotty if it was the last thing he did today. With help from Mycroft, John picked Scotty up.

“Can you carry her?”

“Absolutely.” He found a comfortable hold and nodded for Mycroft to lead the way. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess this little pest escaped her own bed and no one had the heart to put her back. When she started panicking about Sherlock, you had to sedate her before she injured herself.”

“Yes. Which is all the proof I need that she is, in fact, a Holmes.” A slight twitch of a smile at that. “Take care of my daughter, Captain. Please.”

“Oh, don’t worry about us.” He looked at the girl asleep in his arms, amazed that he had made it home at all. Getting to the car was fairly simple, Mycroft gave the driver his orders, and John settled in for a quiet drive. The house was in Notting Hill, thirty minutes by car, and the driver got the front door open for him when they arrived.

“Miss Hudson’s room is at the top of the house, Captain.” The man let him into the house, “Do you need any help?”

“Yeah, I might. Spot me, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not, sir.” Mycroft’s man just gave him a smile and followed him up the stairs, giving him directions as necessary. The second floor was apparently Scotty’s little kingdom, two bedrooms had been converted for her personal use. One room was a bedroom, the other...he would investigate once he had Scotty tucked in. Getting Scotty situated didn’t take very long, and the driver excused himself once he was sure John could handle things by himself.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got this. Thanks.” He rubbed his jaw, feeling aches and pains from the last thirteen hours. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Charles, sir.”

“Thank you, Charles.” 

“Of course, Captain.” A benign, slightly concerned smile and a handshake before the man was gone again. John sighed and locked the door, confident that Mycroft had keys to his own house, and did some low-scale exploring.

 

:-:

 

The house was homier than he’d expected from someone like Mycroft Holmes, he suspected most of the domestic touches were Scotty’s doing. The second floor was, as he had suspected, Scotty’s domain and besides her bedroom, which was fairly standard for a teenager’s room except for the addition of computer towers and monitors. In the next room down the hall, it was nothing _but_ computers and monitors and tech in various stages of build. One wall of monitors showed satellite maps of different places around the world. One showed London, another showed a three-way split-screen of Afghanistan with cameras in Kandahar, Kabul, and the base in Bost. Those were the cameras she had set up to keep an eye on him, it still made him smile to think of all the times he’d looked for those cameras around base in his daily routine, making sure to give some kind of signal to let her know he knew she was watching him. A third showed...where was that? He looked for hints in the footage being streamed and wondered how she had hacked so many cameras. By the looks of it, she had cameras on a police station somewhere in Seattle, Washington? Hadn’t she known people who worked with the Seattle Police Department? It would make sense for her to have cameras there. The London cameras were cycling between different places, mostly street-cameras. She hadn’t hacked any of the places like MI6 yet. She would, though. Her speciality seemed to lay in hacking CCTV-cameras, which was useful for all sorts of things, and mainframes and servers. One of the computers running was on a loop-cycle for a gif-set of...what had she done? Kittens doing the Can-Can, that was a new one. John smiled and left the work-room the way he’d found it.

He needed some sleep, space here was at a premium, and he figured he could crash out on a couch for a couple of hours. But as he did another check on Scotty, who was out cold, he noticed the day-bed tucked against one wall. Well, at any rate, he’d be able to keep an eye on Scotty if he was in the same room. Deciding there was no harm in sleeping in the same room, John made himself at home, making sure to set an alarm and keep his P226 under the pillow safety on. Helped along by a sleep-aid they’d given him back at MI6, which he took with water, he crashed out for those desperate few hours of decent sleep. As he dozed off, he realized that there had been one other location on Scotty’s camera-rotation. Why, he wondered, did she have cameras in Langley, Virginia? It looked like a government facility, which meant she COULD hack secure servers, she just hadn’t done it for MI6. Well, it was none of his business, her camera-hacking had saved his life two months ago.

* * *

 


	6. London Part 1: John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another day in London for Scotty, John, & Co. John meets Sherlock Holmes, cooks breakfast for everyone, and joins Scotty in a bit of for-fun-only hacking. Turns out he's good at more than just patching people up in the middle of a war-zone. A LOT more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from John. Who, it turns out, has a bit more family than he let on initially.
> 
> Part 1

* * *

It was late morning when John woke up again. Careful not to disturb Scotty, who was sound asleep on her bunk, John got up and snuck out of the small bedroom. A quick stop in the bathroom at the end of the hall and he went downstairs again looking for breakfast. Following voices led him down to the kitchen, where he found the Holmes brothers chatting in low tones.

“’Morning, lads.” He stepped into the kitchen with a yawn, “Miss anything?”

“No, Captain. Did you sleep well last night?” Mycroft held out a cup of what he hoped was coffee, God knew he needed a caffeine boost.

“Yeah, I slept pretty well. Coffee?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re Scotty’s friend, aren’t you?” Injured or not, Sherlock Holmes was an observant man. John chuckled and took a sip of coffee.

“Yeah, maybe. What’s it to you, Sunshine?”

“Did I say I had a problem with it?”

“Didn’t have to. I ain’t stupid.” He gave his wrist a quick, testing rotation.

“How is your wrist, Captain?”

“Feels alright. Better than yesterday.” He shrugged and leaned against the island worktop. John was hungry enough to pay attention to the signal his stomach was sending him, but he didn’t know where to go to solve it. But the state of the kitchen was...immaculate and he didn’t want to mess it up. Sherlock didn’t look like the sort who ate much, and Mycroft just didn’t make time for it. Scotty would be the one who kept them from starving, no doubt.

The sound of footsteps behind him heralded Scotty’s arrival.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I am _starving_.”

“The kitchen is yours, my dear.” Mycroft said calmly, moving over to make room for her as she set her laptop down. Still half-asleep, laptop under one arm, she looked so bloody _young_. For the morning, she wore well-loved denims worn in the knees and cuffs, a camisole top, and a lightweight oversized hoodie. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, held in place with...was she using a pencil? That was cute. And she wore her glasses. John had never seen Scotty so relaxed or laid back before, this little glimpse of it was kind of adorable. He hid a smile in his coffee and looked at Mycroft, who just smiled and shrugged.

“Who cooks in this family?”

“She does.” The boys both pointed to Scotty, who looked up sharply. She had completely missed him, somehow, and her reaction was both adorable and heartbreaking.

“John! Oh my god, you’re home!”

“Hi, sweetie.” He held out one arm and she just about knocked him off the stool, “Take it easy, I’m okay.”

“Oh, you’re home! Please tell me you’re home for good?”

“Well, I’m home for as long as it takes to find another job.”

“Did Uncle Mike talk you into going to MI6?”

“It came up in conversation.” He looked over at Mycroft, who shrugged. Uncle Mike? Was she talking about Mycroft? Well, to be fair, she probably had no idea what to call him at the moment. Uncle Mike was probably a name from when Scotty was a child and she needed something to call Mycroft when he visited, as he must have for obvious reasons.

“You’d be good at it.” She smiled and hugged him tight, “Just be careful? Please? It’s bad enough Uncle Mike's one of them.”

“I make no more promises than I was able to in Afghanistan.” He ruffled her hair, “Besides, if you _really_ want to keep an eye on me, just hack their cameras. You’re rather good at that.”

“Well, yeah, but...”

“She respects M, but she takes issue with some of the people in our IT department.” Mycroft supplied, in a good mood this morning.

“Do it anyway. It doesn’t seem to have stopped you anywhere else, has it?”

“Guess not.” She made a face and let go of him, “Are you hungry?”

“Absolutely. What’s on?”

“Wanna help?”

“You trust me in the kitchen?”

“I doubt you’re going to burn it down.” She grinned and went around the island, shooing Mycroft out of the way. Shrugging, John shot a quick glance at her laptop, set up to stream footage from the upstairs computers in the work-room. Today she was focusing on the feeds from Langley.

“Who do you know in Langley?”

“Oh, that’s...that’s a friend of mine.” She smiled shyly and handed him a heavy pan. “Kind of like you, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, but...well, I guess if you’re going to Section Six, he really _is_ like you. Just...American.”

“How’d you get tangled up with the American government?” He located butter and found a pack of bacon. Good bacon, he noticed, not the stringy “healthy” stuff some people excused as an abomination. Turkey was not bacon, thank you.

“Accident, actually. I was just kind of messing around with some servers when I broke into this guy’s work. Took me a minute to figure out what I’d done, but I decided to poke around a bit. He was a good in-road to hacking some of their servers and I found some interesting stuff.”

“You hacked the CIA.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“That’s gutsy.” He chuckled and dug up a carton of eggs, milk, and smiled when Scotty came up with a loaf of bread. Bacon, eggs, eggy-bread, and...

“Tomatoes.” She held up a couple still on the vine.

“Bless. Halfway to a proper breakfast.”

“And it’s been a while too long since you got to have a proper British breakfast.” Scotty just smiled and between them, they worked on a suitably filling breakfast. All the while, Scotty kept an eye on the Langley feeds.

“Who are you keeping such a close eye on, Scotty? I thought it was just me.”

“Oh, stop it. You’re special, you know it, don’t get all jealous on me just because a cute mid-level agent got my attention.” She threw him a look and gave the tomatoes a poke.

“Who said I was jealous?”

“You’re bloody possessive sometimes, it’s kind of flattering.” She rolled her eyes at him and peeked at the screen, “These cameras aren’t on the CIA, these are the personals I hacked at his house.”

“You bloody little spy.”

“I did the same thing for you, so stop it.”

“Yeah, you did. Saved my life, too.”

“I regret nothing.” She sniffed, handing him a spatula, “Give those a flip, will you please?”

“Yep.” He gave the bacon a poke and flipped it all rather uniformly.

“Sherlock, plates, please? Four, if you don’t mind.” She turned her attention to the other two, who had watched quietly as John and Scotty kind of took over the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Son, with that frame, you could stand to gain a couple of pounds.” John eyed him up, “And you’re not going to say a word. You’ll eat what we put in front of you and be grateful we’re not force-feeding you.”

“I don’t _like_ eating, it slows me down.” He grumbled. John snorted and eyed up the cast on his wrist.

“Listen, your body took a serious beating yesterday. You’ve got a concussion, probably Grade 2 if I had to guess, and a broken wrist. Your body needs fuel to help the healing process.” He eyed the man up, “Now unless I missed something and you’ve got a legitimate eating disorder, you’re just being a stubborn arse and making things difficult for everyone else because you know if you bitch long enough, we’ll leave you alone.”

“I...”

“I didn’t say you got to defend yourself. Way I see it, Sherlock Holmes, you can be grateful and learn to say please and thank you to the people who offer you help, or you can keep being an insufferable bastard and die alone in some cramped, dark alley-way in the middle of winter when you’re thirty-five without friends or family who care you’re gone.” He hadn’t seen much of Sherlock awake, but what he _had_ seen reminded him of his sister Harriett. And that, to be completely honest, was a very bad thing. He’d lost Harry to the bottle years ago and had stopped trying to reason with her because she was always drunk and confrontational and he had better things to do with his time than try to deal with a belligerent drunk content to ruin her own life.

“Now, you got yourself hurt doing something helpful and useful, but that doesn’t mean you get to belittle everyone else who can’t do the job just the same way. You’re going to sit down, eat, and I won’t hear another word of it out of you, understand?”

“Why do _you_ care?”

“Because I saw six men die yesterday, men with families and loved ones who will never get to see them again. Next time those families get to see their loved ones is in a box. I saw a lot more of it in Afghanistan than I’ve a mind to remember every night, but I care because you have something they don’t.” He looked at Scotty and Mycroft and then at Sherlock, “You’re here, in London, safe from every awful thing happening in other places in the world, maybe even ignorant to it all, and because we’re over there putting our lives on the line, you can afford to be an arsehole in safety. Be kind to people, Holmes, you might like the results a bit better.”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Like hell, it doesn’t! Sit down and keep your mouth shut.” He handed over one of the plates and as soon as they were all seated, he took a minute to say a short prayer in his head, thanks for what they had in London that didn’t exist in other places in the world.

“Eat what you can.” He said this to all three of them, knowing that Scotty at least had suffered poor nutrition as part of the abuse she had lived with for so long, and she had a smaller appetite as a result. Miraculously, she ate everything on her plate, as did Mycroft. Sherlock got about a quarter of his plate, John stared him down until he got half of his plate clear. There weren’t any leftovers the way he and Scotty had prepared breakfast, and what was left from Sherlock’s lot, John finished for him. He hadn’t eaten decent food in far too long, he wasn’t going to let it go to waste without good reason. After breakfast, he did the wash-up and stacked the dishes in the dishwasher. The rest of the family scattered to different parts of the house.

 

John tracked Scotty to her work-room, found her doing...whatever it was she did with her day.

“You don’t have to just stand there, you can come in.” She looked over her shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Take a seat.” She waved to a small couch shoved into one corner.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping tabs on my American friend.”

“Ah. So, you apparently have no problem hacking the CIA, what’s stopping you from hacking MI6?”

“Nothing.” She pointed to one of the monitors and he watched the screen flash and “Access Established” pop up on the screen in all-caps red text.

“Clever girl.” He chuckled. “I feel like I should apologise.”

“For what?”

“For raising my voice to Sherlock at breakfast.”

“Don’t, because he never listens to any of us.” Scotty looked over her shoulder at him even as she kept working. There was something comforting and familiar about this, even though he had never been in the same room with her or gotten a chance to watch her work. She was wearing that gamer-communications headset she always wore, the one he liked so much in that particular picture. It made her look professional and yet somehow so very young.

“In case you were wondering what your American counterpart looks like, why you remind me of him, that’s him there.” She did something on her primary screen and one of the other monitors came up with a government dossier headshot. John got one look at Scotty’s CIA pal and tilted his head.

“What the...hell?”

“Yeah, it’s a little weird. I ran into him about two months ago in Vancouver, of all places. Nice bloke.”

“Hang on.” John kicked to his feet and went up to the wall of monitors, standing in front of the one displaying the photograph, “That’s Everett Ross.”

“You know ‘im?”

“Yeah! Of course, I do!” He huffed, “I’ll be god damned. You said he’s CIA?”

“Somewhere in the mid-level ranks at the moment, but climbing pretty quickly. Really nice guy, pretty cute.”

“Of course you’d think he was cute.” John rolled his eyes, “Lucky prick, has all the luck.”

“How _do_ you know him?”

“That handsome bastard of a specimen is my brother.” He leaned towards the screen, “Yeah, I know _him_.”

“Hang on! You’ve got an American twin brother? How does _that_ work?”

“Simple. He grew up in America, I grew up here, we saw each other once every few months, parted ways when we were in uni, kind of lost touch.”

“Holy shit.” Scotty stared at him, “I was right.”

“Hmm?”

“First time I saw him in person? I thought it was you, but you were in Afghanistan. Not to mention his accent was _completely_ wrong.”

“Yep, that’s Rett. Silly bastard. How’s he doing?”

“Not too poorly.” Scotty seemed to have taken the revelation rather well, “I thought you just had a sister, y’know? You never mentioned a brother.”

“It was never that important.”

“Well, damn.”

“Language, young lady.”

“Oh, please!” She rolled her eyes, “I’m seventeen!”

“And you will watch your language, thank you.”

“Yes, Mum.” Belligerent and headstrong to the last. No wonder he liked her so much. John smirked and turned from the screen. Before he could say anything else, the entire set-up suddenly blanked. It was just for a moment, a burst of static, but it got Scotty’s attention.

“What was that?”

“Oh, no.”

“What is it?”

“Damn it, Q!” She spun her chair to her primary computer and he watched her fingers fly across the keyboard, “You...smug little fucker! Not today, my good son! Not. Today.”

“What’s going on? Trouble?”

“No, not...exactly. Fuck, he’s getting better at this. Jesus. Hang on a second.” She turned to another computer and he watched, mesmerized and a little concerned, as her fingers flew across the keys, strings of code being entered as fast as some people processed a thought, or faster. It took him a minute to realise that he was watching from this side of a hack-war between two hackers, and this was apparently business as usual.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s a stupid game we play. He sneaks up on me, dumps and runs, and I have to find the kill-code. Never malicious, just...fucking annoying.” She growled, “I told him once that if I ever met him I would throttle him.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a pretentious prick who has nothing better to do with his time than play games with a loner seventeen-year-old living in her dad’s house. Poor little rich girl, I am. Not quite an easy target, but...oh, there we go!” Whatever she’d done had an effect and everything on their end cleared up. “Now, it’s _my_ turn.” Again, her fingers flew, characters appeared and disappeared into strings of code that looked like gibberish to John at first glance, and after a moment, a window popped up on her screen. She tapped into the window and a Skype-window came up. He couldn’t see who was on the other end, a vague, blurry figure, but there was a conversation going on that he couldn’t hear.

“You cheated, Q! Don’t cry because I caught you first and got you back square!” She sniped, “You tried to come in the back door, sonny boy, and this back door’s got eyes on. You can’t sneak past me if I’m already watching, can you?”

“Scotty?”

“Shh.” She waved him off, focusing on her opponent. “No, not _you_ , Q, sorry. No, I’ve got company. He’s not about to tell on us, he doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

“Oi!”

“Well, does _that_ make any sense to you?” She pointed to a screen displaying blocks of code.

“Not out of context!”

“Then what are you fussing about?”

“Respect for your elders, child.”

“Earn it.” She chimed back, and John raised an eyebrow. Had a seventeen-year-old girl just challenged him like that?

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

“Care to repeat yourself there, Hudson?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh, you’re a fine piece of work, aren’t you?” He folded his arms across his chest, “You know what we do with the disrespectful likes of you in the Army, don’t you?”

“Try it, why don’t you?”

“Was that a challenge, Miss Hudson?”

“Did it have to be?”

“Mariam Scott Raileigh Hudson.” Well, if that didn’t just work like a charm. That was what the lads had always called his “Captain Watson” voice, and he hadn’t dropped it on Sherlock earlier, but he had no problem at all using it on Scotty. Who, predictably, froze. Reaching over her shoulder, he shut down the Skype window and waited.

“Well?”

“Shit.”

“Just a bit, yeah.” He raised an eyebrow as she turned to look at him properly. “Get a bit lost in yourself there, did we?”

“Sorry?”

“Reprimand is a thing, you know?” He didn’t mind working her a bit, she had kind of earned a bit of tough love.

“W-what, exactly, did you have in mind, Captain?” There it was. John chuckled and stepped back from her work-station.

“Whatever that boy did to your system, double your assault and make him suffer.”

“What?”

“Oh, you heard me. He played dirty. Up your game.”

“How is that...?”

“Scotty, you’ve hacked military-grade firewalls in two or three places. If you can do that, you can bring your best to a harmless game of back-and-forth between a couple of amateur hackers.”

“But...how?” It had occurred to Scotty that _she_ wasn’t necessarily the one being punished. John grinned.

“I need a work-station and a patch-in to whatever you’re working on.”

“A...oh, sure! Um,” Scotty hopped to her feet and darted across the room, “Here. You can work here.” She pulled up a computer, one of many linked into her network, “Um. It...should be patched automatically.”

“We’ll know in a minute.” He waited for the system to catch up and thought of something. He had a thumb-drive just for this purpose, it had made it back to London with him. Where were his bags?

“What are you looking for?”

“Where’d they put my stuff?”

“My room.”

“Be right back.” He ran back to Scotty’s room and dug into his deployment backpack until he came up with the small locked carrying-case. Returning to the work-room, he sat down at his work-station and unlocked the case.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t you worry yourself, Hudson, I know what I’m doing.” He found the thumb-drive and inserted it into one of the ports on the computer. It didn’t take long for the system to respond appropriately and he did some fancy work of his own. Finding Scotty’s network, he patched in and caught up with her. “There. Now, let’s see if we can’t mess with your friend Q for a bit.”

“You’re a hacker?”

“Not exactly. I just know how to do what you’re doing.” He’d broken into a couple of computers during his service, just one or two, this would be kind of fun.

“Not just a friendly Army doctor.”

“Not by a long shot, sweetheart. Not by a long shot.” He chuckled, “Now, come on.”

“Yessir.” He didn’t miss her smile as he tagged along as she played a game with Q, who was...local? No, he was in Cambridge. Not _that_ far away.

“Picked the wrong target today, Q.” He murmured to himself. Scotty giggled at her station as they picked on Q, who was not taking the double-assault very well.

 

Two hours later, Q called a truce and Scotty sent the kill-codes to let him have his computers back. There was another Skype-call, this time John was in on it. Q was nothing but a shadow-concealed figure on the screen, but he _sounded_ quite young. He knew his business, but he was not much older than Scotty. He leaned towards his monitor, knowing damn well Q could see him, and grinned. It was one of his dangerous smiles, the kind he gave people when they pissed him off one time too many.

“Not sure if you knew who the other party on the assault was back here in London, Q. You just got schooled by a soldier, son. Congratulations.”

_“Holy shit. Captain Watson?”_

“In the living flesh, my good son.” He chuckled, not at _all_ surprised Scotty’s mysterious hack-ally knew who he was. “Is everything in order on your end, Q?”

 _“Yes, sir, all systems are operating normal and nominal, Captain.”_ Q did something on his end. _“You know your business behind a computer, Captain. I wasn’t expecting that.”_

“Son, I’ve done things in my regular day that would make most civilians faint. A few hours of innocent hacking-wars is  a bit of fun for the likes of me.” John snickered, “Usually my targets aren’t so innocuous.”

 _“No, I guess they wouldn’t be, would they, sir?”_ If he’d been able to see the lad’s face, John suspected that Q might just be smiling.

 

**:-:**

 

After having their fun with Q, Scotty went to mess with her friends in Seattle, leaving John to do whatever he felt like. He stuck around the work-room and spied on his brother in Langley for a while. This was apparently a day off for Everett, he was home for the moment. John used a patch-hack on Scotty’s cameras to get the feeds, which were pretty extensive. Of course he had a full network of cameras at his house. Honestly, though, he could do so much better than the dingy little place he was living it right now.

“Not that I have a lot of room to talk about housing options.” He muttered. Feeling a bit petulant, John tapped out a message to his brother and waited for the results. By his watch, it was just past 1pm, which put it at 9am in Langley. The reason he thought it might be Everett’s day off is because he was usually out of the house by this time of day. When that phone-call came through, he snickered.

“Hey, Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“You wanna say hi to my brother?”

“Is that him?”

“It’s about to be. Come ‘ere.” He waited for her to patch in and join before he answered the call. “Good morning, Everett.”

_“John? Where the hell are you?”_

“London, cooling my heels.” He looked sideways at Scotty, “How’s Langley?”

_“Boring as hell. They put me on sick leave.”_

“Sick leave?” He raised an eyebrow, “Why’d they do that? You didn’t get into something without me, did you?”

_“Might’ve.”_

“Everett Kinsey Ross-Watson, what did you do?”

_“Nothing you wouldn’t have done.”_

“Care to elaborate on that, son?” He leaned towards the screen, “You know I can always tell when you’re lying, right? Have since we were kids. What did you do?” Scotty handed him something. A piece of paper with a couple of words scribbled on it. Oh, Scotty really _was_ monitoring his brother, not just at home. She had somehow hacked his trackers and managed to stalk him on a job recently.

_“It was a routine job, J. Nothing special.”_

“A routine job that went disastrously sideways and if you hadn’t had the kind of help you did at the time, you wouldn’t be at home. You’d be in a hospital or on a slab in the morgue.” He shook his head, “Everett, you’re a moron.”

_“I thought that was a given?”_

“You’re fucking lucky you’ve got the likes of Scotty Hudson in your corner, son, she probably saved your sorry hide that day.”

_“Hang on. You know Scotty Hudson?”_

“I think it’s Scotty Holmes now, and yes, I know her. Probably better than you do.”

_“Scotty?”_

“Yeah, Rett, I’m here. Hi.”

 _“Oh my god.”_ The look on Everett’s face was absolutely priceless. _“How the hell do you two know each other?”_

“Post mix-up with a letter-exchange a couple years back. Her letter got lost and ended up on my desk after it got back into the system. “Any American Soldier” turned into “Any British Soldier” and the rest is history.”

_“You’re kidding me.”_

“Nope.”

 _“Jesus. Well, you look properly awful. What the hell happened to you, then?”_ Everett, observant bastard, had noticed John’s slightly-awful appearance. He snorted and looked at Scotty, who shrugged. She hadn’t really taken the revelation of the ambush too well, but that was fine. She wasn’t supposed to stay calm about it.

“Dodged a bit of a bullet.”

_“Literally or figuratively?”_

“Quite a few literally. And figuratively.” He shrugged, “I’m home for good now. And about time.”

_“Thank Christ. What happened?”_

“Ambush in Maiwand. Halfway between Bost and Kandahar proper and we get tagged.”

_“Damn it, John.”_

“Yeah, yeah, you should’ve seen me when I got here. Bit of a proper fright to behold.”

_“What’s the damage?”_

“Grade 2 wrist-sprain. Should heal in a few weeks. Can’t go back to work until I do, though.”

 _“What_ kind _of work?”_

“Your kind of work.” He looked at Scotty, whose eyes got wide.

“MI6?”

_“Well, damn. Never thought you’d say yes to that lot.”_

“The Director asked nicely.” Not that M had really formally asked. She had more or less told him he was to report to stations as soon as Medical cleared him for regular light duty. He wasn’t certain what his exact responsibilities would be, what kind of work he would end up doing. John could see going either to Medical or to a station as an agent. Maybe a field-agent if he was lucky. Maybe...could he shoot for a double-oh rank?

 _“Yeah, I’m sure Director Mansfield asked nicely.”_ Everett just rolled his eyes. _“You be careful, John Watson. Intelligence is a rough place to be.”_

“I think I can handle it, Rett. How much worse can it be than Special Forces?”

_“You’ve got a point. Well, whatever the case, brother, don’t be a stranger.”_

“I make no promises.” He smiled, “Take care of yourself, Everett.”

_“You, too, John. Thanks for calling. Talk to you later.”_

“Anytime.” He let Everett hang up first and looked at Scotty, who had learned a lot in that phone-call. “So?”

“MI6? Military Intelligence?”

“Yep.”

“Section Six.”

“Yep.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

“Wouldn’t dream of keeping it from you. Besides, knowing you, you’d find out anyway and I would rather you didn’t find out the hard way.”

“Hacking is easier than you’d think, but...don’t do anything too stupid. If I can get your brother out of trouble, I can get you out of trouble the same way.” She studied him closely, “And probably faster than the Quartermasters can.” 

“Was that a challenge?”

“Might’ve been.” She tilted her head, looking very young. John realized just how close they were right now, and sighed. No, he couldn’t do that. Especially not in this house. Not to Scotty. She deserved better. A touch on his leg got his attention.

“Hey. Stay with me, John. Stay here.” She watched him, eyes clear and open.

“Scotty, we...can’t. We can’t.”

“No one else is home, John. We’ve been alone in this house for several hours. Uncle Mike and Sherlock left shortly after breakfast.” She looked down, “They won’t be back anytime soon, if Sherlock comes back at all. He doesn’t live with us.”

“What about Mycroft?”

“He has work to do at Vauxhall Cross, and he calls before he comes home. If he comes home.” Scotty seemed to spend an awful lot of time by herself, but that was something that went all the way back to her lifestyle in Seattle, so it wasn’t that much of a problem. It still made him kind of sad that she didn’t really have anyone to talk to.

“Scotty...”

“Please?” She got up and held out one hand to him, “I’m not asking for anything you won’t give me.” John cursed his lack of restraint and his lack of control, apparently, where Scotty Holmes was concerned. Holmes. Not Hudson. God, he’d have to get used to that. Deciding he really had very little to lose and still had _everything_ to lose if something went wrong with this, John took Scotty’s hand. It was back to her bedroom, the door was subsequently locked, and he waited while she set up surveillance on the house-cameras on the computers she kept in her bedroom. He didn’t miss how she set up a feed from MI6 at the same time.

 

Scotty pulled him over to the daybed he’d slept on last night and he let her lead. She had just escaped assault yesterday, he had no right making any demands. Scotty sat down with him, for a while they didn’t move. But Scotty, despite her history, was still very human and it didn’t take long for her to come looking for affection and intimate touch. John was happy to provide and decided that cuddling was alright with him. More would be nice, but he wasn’t going to push. Maybe he didn’t feel like pushing for more, but Scotty didn’t seem to have a problem asking nicely.

“What do you want, love?” He asked, playing with her hair.

“Can we...try kissing again? I mean, last time was...” She trailed off. Last time was crazy, unbelievable, unreal, and...perfect. John still couldn’t believe, two months after the fact, that Scotty had actually flown out to Bost from London just to make sure _he_ was okay. No one else mattered, nothing _else_ mattered, it was just to make sure that John Watson was alive and safe after an attack that rocked the camp and left several people dead and others wounded. He had gotten very lucky. John was not ashamed to admit that hours had been lost to thinking about those two spur-of-the-moment kisses, and if he would ever get the chance to try again. If he would be _allowed_ to try again.

“Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“All you have to do is ask.”

“Can we do that again?”

“Of course we can. If that’s alright with you?” Consent was _very_ important for him, for both of them.

“Yeah, it’s...please? I want to, I’ve missed you. A lot.” She leaned against him, “I never thought I’d be allowed to touch, I’d ever get to meet you. And I did, and then I had to leave, and then you got hurt, and...”

“I’m right here, Scotty.” He took her hand and touched her shoulder. “Come here, love.” Her experience with kissing was very limited and most of her experience with intimacy was violent. He wanted to change that if he could. Scotty, willing to try anything and willing to trust him to take care of her, let him take the lead in this.

“If we need to stop, just say Stop.” He pulled her into a position ideal for experimental kissing. This wasn’t just an experiment, it was also a trust exercise. That was important. “You always have control, if you start to feel uncomfortable with anything, use your safe-word if you want to stop. Stop will do for now.”

“Okay. I’ve...I’ve never...”

“You’ve never had control. Trust me to take care of you and listen to you. I won’t hurt you, Scotty. Just. Say. Stop.” He rubbed his thumb along her jaw, “You’re worth so much more than that monster reduced you to, I hope you know that.”

“I’m...still trying. It’s hard sometimes.”

“Let me distract you. Let me teach you.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t mind that, so he moved on. This was reconditioning, plain and simple. Getting Scotty used to intimacy, used to trusting her body to someone else and knowing they wouldn’t abuse her. When he kissed her properly for the first time in two months, possibly in ever, he was careful. She hadn’t asked him to stop, and he had asked her several times. She was okay, he could keep going. The first time was not quite perfect the way the books talked about it, but it was near enough. Scotty whined as his lips touched hers, and he stopped.

“Don’t stop! Please!”

“Alright.” He smiled and tried again. Scotty’s lips were slightly chapped but soft, and she was wearing that chapstick again. She responded just beautifully and he pushed onward, one hand resting on the back of her neck, not doing anything except touching. She got very still and he imagined she was touch-shy. It would make good sense.

“Scotty? You okay?”                               

“Not...there.”

“Okay. That’s okay.” He smiled and moved his hand. Back of the neck was off-limits. He’d love to know why. She seemed to be okay with having her hair touched, but he was careful not to pull. If she didn’t like having the back of her neck touched, she wouldn’t like having her hair pulled. Gentle tugging seemed okay. It was touch she was shy of, he noticed, not kissing. He wondered why. That made his job easier, but still. John took a break and held her, just letting her recover for a minute.

“Scotty, why don’t you like having your neck touched? Can you tell me?”

“It’s...I don’t like being pinned down.”

“You were pinned down.”

“Usually from behind, they would...sit on me.” This was nothing he didn’t know, but it made him feel a bit ill to hear it again.

“That’s why you’re not shy of kissing, they never took you from the front. Or if they did, they gagged you.”

“I like kissing. Just...don’t grab me from behind.”

“Warn you before touching you from behind.”

“Yeah.”

“Scotty?”

“Hmm?”

“Were you ever...taken from the front?”

“No.”

“Oh, sweetie.” He pulled her into a hug, careful not to touch the no-zone. She leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. After a while, John felt something against the side of his neck and smiled. He didn’t say anything or move, letting her take this one. Scotty shifted so she was sitting straddling his lap and launched a frontal assault. She was a fast learner, and John had to clench his teeth when she got under the collar of his jacket. Oh no.

“Scotty.” Did he try to stop her? He didn’t want to stop her, but this could not end well if he didn’t at least try. “Scotty, sweetheart, slow down.”

“Stop?”

“Slow down a bit.” He rubbed her shoulder, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, love. We’ve got all the time in the world. It’s okay.”

“Not good?” She looked sad, and John sighed. Christ how bad he wanted to just throw caution to the wind, but...that was a bad idea. Especially right now.

“No, it’s alright. I promise it’s not you at all.” He touched her cheek, “You are...perfect. It’s me.”

“I’m sorry.” She leaned against him again, he felt the sag in her frame and cursed under his breath. Damn it.

“Don’t...Scotty, don’t apologise, please? I don’t want you to get hurt. I just don’t. That’s not my job.”

“You don’t need to protect me from everything, either.” She sniffled. “I’m seventeen years old, for Christ’s sake. I can make my own choices.”

“Scotty, what _exactly_ do you want from this? From me?” he stroked her hair as she manoeuvred sideways on his lap.

“I want to forget about Seattle. I want to stop associating sexual intimacy with bad things. I want...I want to be _happy_.”

“Oh, Scotty.” John kissed her on the temple. Everything she was asking for made perfect sense. She was trying to take back control of her life, of every aspect of it. But was she making the right choices? And yet, who was _he_ to dictate her decisions? She had spent years having choice stripped away from her without her consent, having no control at all over anything in her life. Scotty turned her head and leaned back a bit, he knew what she was asking for and happily delivered.

“Dear, sweet, troubled Scotty.” He punctuated each word with a kiss, “Forgive an idiot.”

“Well, if you’re an idiot, you’re my idiot.” She smiled and touched noses with him, “It’s fine, John.”

“Is it, though?”

“Hey, knock it off.” She shifted and straddled his lap again, “It’s. Fine. You were thinking about me, for once. No one has ever taken my needs and autonomy into consideration. I’m a thing for using.”

“You are _not_ a thing for using. Ever. Not ever.” John folded his hands under her shoulder-blades, a neutral, secure place to hold onto her. “And you never will be again.” Scotty’s smile was shy but brilliant and she decided more kissing was in order. If it went somewhere, well...they would worry about that if it happened. John enjoyed kissing, it was a favourite way of showing affection, and there was just something special about kissing Scotty. She was practically a blank slate and desperate to learn, desperate for affirmative, affectionate touch and kind words. Maybe for more, but he wouldn’t concern himself with that just at the moment.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taking so many chapters, but it was break it up like this or wall-of-text 23,784 words all at once. That's a bit much. And this was broken up from a further 13k-plus worth of words. I don't think anyone wants to read that much in a single go on a multi-chapter fic.


	7. London Part 2: John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins the process of making London his permanent home after years of living elsewhere. Mycroft told him not to worry about housing or employment, and sure enough, those two things have been neatly taken care of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2

* * *

An hour later, Scotty had the bright idea to start house-hunting for him. He was going to be in London indeterminately, he might as well have his own place to live. So, with a list of potential places in hand, he hit the streets with Scotty in tow and went looking at a couple of flats. They were either too expensive, or just not the right feel. Finally, as it was getting late, Scotty decided a short stop-off was in order. They were somewhere in Central London, in Marylebone, and she took him to a small cafe near Regent’s Park. It was a nicer part of town, he could only imagine the rent around here was astronomical, but he liked the feel of it, and when he caught sight of a “For Let” sign above one doorway, he was intrigued.

“Scotty?”

“Hmm?”

“What’s the lease-rate around here?”

“Marylebone? Oh, it’s kind of steep. I mean, it’s not awful, like in Kensington or Knightsbridge, but still, more than some people are comfortable with. Why?”

“I didn’t see _that_ address on our list.” He pointed out the sign, “Do you think it’s worth a shot to knock on the door and ask to speak to the landlord?” Scotty looked at the sign and then at the address. It was right next to the cafe, and the tube station was just down a way. Five minutes’ walk, if that. Rather prime spot, he was kind of surprised the place was on the market.

“Sure! I don’t think she’ll mind some company!” Scotty smiled and went up to the door, ringing the bell without hesitation. There wasn’t any answer right away, but before he could suggest maybe coming back, Scotty used a key and let herself in. She didn’t live here, so...

“Scotty?”

“Come on in. If she didn’t answer, that means she’s got her radio on.” Scotty waved him into the house, “This is my grandmother’s place. I forgot she had rooms for let. I think they’re upstairs?”

“Your grandmother?”

“Hudson.”

“Oh, right! You _were_ a Hudson, weren’t you?”

“Yep.” She locked the door and looked around, “Gram! You home?” Somewhere else in the house, John heard a radio.

“Is that you, Scotty?” Sure enough, it didn’t take long for Scotty’s adopted grandmother (and quite possibly the only surviving grandparent she had left for either family) to show herself.

“We were in the area, thought we’d stop in.” Scotty greeted the woman, “Hi, Gram. How’s things?”

“Oh, Scotty, you good girl! You came to see me!” The woman hugging Scotty was in her seventies, in alarmingly good shape for her age, and very...enthusiastic.

“Of course I did! Sorry I haven’t been in a while, it’s been kind of crazy.”

“Oh, nonsense! You’re a good girl, Scotty Holmes.”

“Gram, I want you to meet somebody. He’s a good friend of mine, and he needs a place to live.” Scotty turned to John, who waited at-rest, a habit he really needed to try and break if he could, “This is John Watson, Gram. My pen-pal.”

“Oh, of _course_! The soldier! She’s talked all about you!” Mrs Hudson pulled away from Scotty and came to inspect, “Well, aren’t you a fine sight! Watson, you said?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“John, my grandmother, Martha Hudson.”

“Pleasure, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t “ma’am” me, young man! Well, you’re a proper thing, aren’t you?” She just smiled in that sly way that said she knew something but wasn’t about to say what. “Do you want a look at the rooms, then?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Oh, of course I don’t! There’s not much up there, the last tenant didn’t have a lot and left most of it behind.”

“That’s fine.”

“Just up the top of the stairs, Captain. There’s another room upstairs on the second floor for rent, too.”

“I think just one will do, Mrs Hudson.” John started the climb, counting seventeen stairs. That seemed an oddly specific number. The first-floor flat, the primary rooms for let, was rather nice. A bit dusty because it hadn’t been lived in for a while, but it was clean. There were two armchairs, a beat-up Chesterfield, and a work-table in the sitting room. In the kitchen, a wooden table and a few mismatched chairs. Not much else, no appliances. The range and fridge-freezer combo seemed to be in good condition. There weren’t any dishes or utensils, but that wasn’t unusual. In the back was a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom that let out into the hall. The bedroom was empty. Furniture was relatively cheap, and it was something he could spend his pension on. Scotty had been following him around with a notebook, writing down whatever she saw. He caught her walking the perimeter of the bedroom, taking measurements that way, and smiled, watching her work it out in that brilliant little brain of hers.

“Scotty, what on earth are you doing?” He asked as she stood in a particular spot and then started walking again.

“Hush. I’m measuring.”

“Measuring what?”

“How big of a bed we could get in here.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m thinking, be quiet.”

“Scotty.” Mrs Hudson scolded. John rolled his eyes.

“Double or a king would fit alright,” Scotty announced finally. She currently slept on a lofted small single, and John had slept on a single last night. A double would have room for comfort, a king seemed to be a bit overkill. He didn’t need a bed _that_ big, did he? Scotty disappeared to the kitchen, he caught up with her busy on her laptop.

“What are you doing?”

“Shopping.” She looked up at him, “King or double?”

“I’d say...double. I don’t think I need _that_ much room in a bed.”

“Headboard or no?”  

“Mm.” He thought about that. “Is it necessary?”

“It’s your bedroom.”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Under-bed storage?”

“Yes.”

“Colour preference?”

“Not particularly.” He shrugged, going around behind her, “What are you looking at?”

“Bed-frames.”

“You’re going to need this, then.” He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and retrieved a certain card, handing it to her. “Be smart with that.”

“Roger that.” She just smiled at him and he chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Oi!”

“Easy, sweetie.” He smirked, leaving her to handle this part of the arrangement.

“Why don’t you come with me, then, Captain?” Mrs Hudson just smiled at him and led him downstairs. While Scotty took care of furnishing the flat, he worked out the rental agreements. They decided upon £1500 a month, but she would happily reduce his rent if he could find someone to share with. He didn’t know _that_ many people in London, but he was willing to do some hunting for someone willing to live with a retired Army doctor who was about to walk into a job with Military Intelligence.

“I probably won’t be around that much, to be honest, Mrs Hudson.” He looked up from signing the contracts, “I’ve been offered a job that will probably have me away from London most of the time.”

“Oh, that’s alright, my dear. I know you’re good for it.” Mrs Hudson just smiled at him over the rim of her tea-cup, “You seem the rather quiet type.”

“I’ll apologise in advance for any commotion you’ll be hearing from upstairs, Mrs Hudson. My sleep-habits are going to be a bit unpredictable.”

“Of course they will be, when you get any sleep at all.” Mrs Hudson patted him on the hand. Scotty popped her head in with a list of things they still needed to buy and things they could have delivered. All she needed was his go-ahead to order everything.

“Looks fine with me. Go ahead.” He handed the list back to her and watched her leave again, glued to her phone. She was either texting or reading something, but it had her full attention. John could only imagine and shook his head.

“That girl is one of a kind, Captain. You be good to her, hear me?”

“Of course, Mrs Hudson.” He looked at his landlady, who raised an eyebrow at him.

“She’s some of the only family I’ve got left, Captain, and I’ll know where to point fingers if something goes sideways. I’m not stupid.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson. If you want to point fingers at someone, you can blame the Holmeses. Any trouble she’ll be getting into is going to be on their heads, not mine.” John shrugged. Not that he wouldn’t be getting Scotty into a bit of trouble, but it wouldn’t be nearly on the scale Sherlock Holmes was capable of. Mrs Hudson chuckled and shook her head.

“You’ve been good to my granddaughter, Captain. You were a friend when she didn’t have anyone to talk to.”

“That’s not going to change, Mrs Hudson. Scotty was the friend I didn’t think I needed, and I haven’t regretted a single minute of our friendship. She’s...very special.” John sighed and leaned against the table, picking at the edge of the brace he still wore on his wrist. Two more days, the doctors had said. At which time he would return to Vauxhall Cross for a follow-up to assess how things were going. At that time, he would probably receive a light-use brace for daytime wear, possibly for night-time. A re-injury generally took longer to heal than a preliminary, so it could be a month before he was cleared to any duty.

“What’s that from, then?”

“Ambush between Bost and Kandahar.” He gave an experimental rotation, wincing as it smarted. “I got lucky. Six of my Marines didn’t.”

“I’m so sorry, Captain.”

“I’ve left that life behind me, Mrs Hudson, it won’t the Army handing down my orders anymore. I’ll answer to someone else this time.”

“Well, you just be careful, hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson, I understand.”

“You’re very special to my granddaughter, she would be devastated if anything happened to you.” Mrs Hudson set down her cup and levelled him with a certain look. John wondered how obvious it was to the rest of the world that he saw Scotty as more than just a friend. Not that it was any of their business, but people could be annoyingly perceptive when they felt like it. Apparently, his landlady was one of those people. Well, nothing for it. Scotty was well of the age of consent, and nothing that happened between them would be done without that consent. Not a single thing.

“I know what that girl looks like when she’s happy, Captain, and she lights up the room when she talks about you.” Mrs Hudson shook her head sadly, “I haven’t seen her smile like that since before my son Matthew died. He was the good one, he was.”

“Your...son, ma’am?”

“I had two sons, Captain, Matthew and Gordon. Matthew, he’s the one who took Scotty on after her paternity came into question. I still remember him calling me from work that day and asking what he should do. What was the right thing to do?”

“What happened? I mean, I know some of it, but not all of it.”

“Oh, it was a proper scandal, that was, but it got taken care of right.” Mrs Hudson shrugged, “That tramp didn’t get a cent of what she was after. All she got for her trouble was no less than she deserved. Knew it wasn’t safe for that girl with her father, hardest thing he ever did was give her up. But Matthew took her on without missing a heartbeat, said it was the right thing and he’d do it because he knew Mycroft would do just the same for him in a pinch.”

“And she never knew any better. She grew up thinking he was just a dear friend of the family, it never occurred to her that she was spending time with her own father.”

“No, she didn’t. That poor girl has suffered enough.”

“And anyone who brings her trouble will have me to contend with, Mrs Hudson. You have my word.”

“You’re a good one, Captain. You remind me an awful lot of my boy Matthew. You take care of that girl and she will reward you.”

“She’s already saved my life at least once, I’m not sure how I can repay that.”

“Be there for her, whatever she needs and whenever she needs you.” Mrs Hudson smiled wisely. “I suspect I’ll be seeing more of my granddaughter now that you’re living here than I ever did before.”

“You probably will, Mrs Hudson.” John would be damned if he didn’t blush. But she wasn’t wrong. There were a number of factors that had kept Scotty from visiting more often, and almost none of those were still a point of concern.

Scotty came back to return his card and inform him that everything they had ordered from IKEA would be delivered the following morning. On the roster for delivery was a standard double bed-frame, a mattress of proper dimensions, pillows, a pair of side-tables, a set of drinking glasses, silverware, and dishes. Anything that wasn’t on that list would be acquired as necessary, but it looked like a decent place to start. He had to go out to get the banker’s cheque for the deposit and first month’s rent, which came to about £3500. John decided it was a good time to go get the cheque and asked Scotty if she wanted to come along. Of course, she did. Mrs Hudson gave him a key to the house for 221B before they left.

 

:-:

 

It was a quiet drive from Baker Street to the nearest NatWest bank-branch and while he waited in line, Scotty went down the street a ways to wait for him at Costa Coffee. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if he got there and found her hacking again. Once he had the cheque in hand, properly signed and written out to the correct parties, John went in search of Scotty. He found her at an outdoor table at Costa, busy with her work. The sight of her wearing that headset would never get old and it would never fail to make him smile. As always, she was alert to her surroundings and saw him coming, but did not look up to make eye contact as she nudged out the chair across from hers.

“I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, so I just got two of my favourite.”

“Oh. Thanks for that.” He chuckled and sat down. “What are you up to?”

“Do you want an answer to that?”

“Are you going to give me one?”

“Two words: Plausible deniability.”

“Figures. Had to ask.” He shook his head and took a sip of coffee. It was a custom, half-coffee half-hot chocolate with...caramel? He pulled the lid of the cup and peeked inside. Yep. That was caramel alright. John smiled and replaced the lid. “Are you at a good point to stop?”

“Yep. Back to Baker Street?”

“I’d rather not have this burning a hole in my pocket. The sooner I get it to your grandmother, the better.”

“Then, what are we waiting for?” Scotty smiled as she closed her laptop and packed up. With coffee in hand, they walked back _up_ Baker Street to the house. As they walked past Baker Street Station, Scotty pointed it out.

“That’s the tube-station, thirty minutes by train from here to Vauxhall Cross. Fifteen by car with standard traffic from the house.”

“Well, MI6 is about dead due south from us, isn’t it?”

“South and a teeny bit east. Battersea is dead due south going in a straight line. Vauxhall Cross is a little less than a mile and a half east of Chelsea Bridge.”

“You know your way around London, don’t you?” John was impressed she could pinpoint a location that precisely, but considering what her workroom looked like at the Notting Hill house, he wasn’t _that_ surprised.

“Sherlock times me on runs through the city. He thinks it’s important that I know what the streets are like on ground-level just as well as I know what they look like on satellite imaging.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“Knowing both, I have twenty ways of getting around London and I can throw a tail in ten minutes if they’re stubborn.”

“Have you been followed?”

“Only for practice. Uncle Mike’s people follow me. To test me and keep me safe, though I like to think I can look after myself.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” John smiled and put an arm around her shoulders. “Just you be careful in London, Scotty Holmes, alright?”

“And you be careful wherever they end up sending _you_.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” John chuckled, trust a Holmes to be stubborn like that.

 

**:-:**

 

When they got back to Baker Street, he handed Mrs Hudson the cheque and offered to come back in the morning. She offered him the second-floor bedroom, kept sparely furnished and not used at all. For one night, she didn’t mind. And really, he kind of had rights to that space anyway.

“You can use it for storage if you’d like. Not that I imagine the likes of you has much?”

“My sister has most of what I left behind, I can get it back from her and store what I don’t need right away.” Which would, unfortunately, require calling Harry. They weren’t quite on speaking terms, but he needed his stuff back now that he was home.

“You take care of that, then. You have your key?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Holler if you need anything, I’ll have my radio on.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John smiled at his landlady and looked at Scotty, who shrugged. Sitting on the couch, he found his sister’s phone number and dialled it. Hopefully, she would be sober this time. The phone rang several times and he thought it would turn over to voice-mail, but it didn’t.

_“Hello?”_

“Clara?” Harry hadn’t answered the phone, her wife had.

_“Is this John?”_

“Yeah, hi.”

_“Holy shit! John! You’re home! Oh my god! How are you?”_

“Hi, Clara. I’m...okay. Listen, I need to get into the storage unit for the rest of my stuff if any of it’s left. Do you mind if I come by for the keys?”

_“Oh, hell, I’ll meet you there!”_

“Are you sure?”

_“Absolutely. Harry’s out for the count, so she won’t miss me leaving.”_

“What’d you put in her tea this time?” John knew without asking that Clara had drugged his sister’s drink.

_“50 mils of Zoloft. She never even asked.”_

“God bless you, Clara.” John chuckled, “Can I meet you in...twenty minutes?”

 _“Sure. See you in a few, John.”_ His sister-in-law chuckled, _“I’m glad  you’re home.”_

“Me, too, Clara. See you in a bit.” John hung up and pocketed his phone.

“Where are you going?”

“Neasden. My sister’s got a storage-unit up there in my name. Her wife has the keys.”

“Are we going to need a car?”

“Probably not.” He headed for the door, Scotty right behind. “Clara drives, she’ll have the car and bets are good she’ll hand me the keys just to keep Harry from trying to drive.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Of course you are!” He smiled and held the door for her. As she hailed a passing taxi, John turned back into the house.

“Mrs Hudson, I’m out! Be back in an hour or so!”

“Be safe, dear!” She called from her flat. John chuckled and locked up as he left, pocketing the key. Scotty held the door of the taxi for him and he got in. Once Scotty was in, he gave the driver the Neasden address. It was a quiet drive over, she was once again glued to her phone. She had her bag over one shoulder and earbuds in, it was a cute picture.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Q.”

“Your friend in Cambridge?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing?”

“PD?”

“Right.” He snickered. Barely twenty-four hours and he was absolutely chill with her hacking. They even had code for it in public.

“Have you ever been caught?”

“Nope. Not by anyone who really mattered.” She shrugged, “’Course, the look on Chief Morrison’s face when I left a loop of dancing reindeer in Santa hats on his computer for Christmas was pretty priceless. Took him until New Years Day to realize it was me.”

“You did... _what_?”

“It was glorious. Whole department got it. Once per session, right after start-up. Lasted three minutes and went away until the next time.”

“You clever girl.” He chuckled. She stuck to harmless hacking, but she could be very destructive with her keystrokes if pressed, as one recent incident had shown. Well, one _he_ was aware of.

 

 

**:-:**

 

When they got to the storage unit, John paid the fare and looked for Clara’s car. Spotting the red Land Rover, he nodded and took Scotty’s hand.

“Come on, Clara’s here.” Leading her across the tarmac, he waved to Clara, who waited just outside for them.

“Clara! Hi!”

“John! God, you look like shite.”

“Gee, thanks. Nice to see you, too.” He rolled his eyes and kissed his sister-in-law on the cheek, “Got the keys?”

“We’re gonna need a trolley.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You can take the car back to...where _are_ you living now?”

“Got a place in Central London. Couple of blocks from Regent’s Park.”

“Ooh, that’s a pricey part of town! How are you getting away with _that_?”

“The landlady’s giving me a nice deal.” He looked at Scotty and grinned. Scotty snorted and rolled her eyes. When they got to his unit, Clara gave him the keys and he opened up the unit. It looked like everything was still there, so Harry hadn’t been selling his stuff off for booze-money.

“D’you need me, John?” Scotty asked, eyeing the contents of the nine-square-foot locker.

“Nope. Clara and I can handle it. It’s just a couple of boxes and an instrument case.” God help them if Harry had sold the guitar. “That’s still in there?”

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t let her sell it.” Clara reassured him with a smile. Scotty shrugged and disappeared around the corner, chatting with Q on what must have been an audio-only Skype-call. He didn’t mind her having other friends, or anyone closer to her own age, and he kind of like Q, despite having never met the lad. Once it was just the two of them, Clara looked at him sideways as they unloaded boxes.

“Who’s the shadow?”

“That’s Scotty Holmes.”

“Your American pen-pal? I thought her name was Hudson.” Clara knew about Scotty, John had gushed a couple of times.

“So did I.” John just gave Clara that stiff smile.

“Oh. Okay.” Clara knew when to back off and shrugged. “She’s cuter in person, though. How old is she?”

“Seventeen going on thirty. That girl’s from a family of legit geniuses. And I _don’t_ know what she does with her free time.”

“Well, I always did say you had an eye for the cute ones. She’s pretty easy on the eyes, isn’t she?”

“I think good looks is genetic. You should see her uncle.”

“Happy bisexual John Watson.” Clara rolled her eyes at that. So what if he thought Sherlock Holmes was handsome?

“Too bad he has terrible manners. A bit rude for my taste.”

“Oh, you always appreciated a good challenge.”

“I have enough of that with Scotty, thank you.”

“Aw, come on, Johnny-boy!”

“Don’t call me that, please?” He picked up the last box.

“Why not?”

“Because I asked nicely?”

“Well, fine. I guess I’ll just have to be boring.”

“Oh, stop it.” John set the box down on the trolley. The last thing he pulled from the unit was his guitar case, which he opened to inspect the instrument inside. It was in perfect condition, just in desperate need of tuning and it looked like a few strings needed replacing. Well, that was easy enough. He hopped out of the locker unit and helped Clara down. Scotty waited around the corner for them, chatting away in French with Q. When she saw them, she made a move to hang up with Q, but John shook his head. She could keep talking, it looked kind of important. She just nodded and kept up her conversation.

“What’s that all about?” Clara whispered as Scotty trailed after them, going back and forth with Q at a mile a minute. “Is she speaking French?”

“She was speaking French when most kids her age were still learning plain Queen’s English.” John smirked, “She speaks at least six languages fluently.”

“Jesus. Family in government or something?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Both the family that adopted her and the one that gave her up.”

“Holy shit.” Clara blinked, “Like, Intelligence?”

“Section Six.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I kid you not. Both her biological father and her adopted father were and are with Section Six.” Which is where he would be going once his wrist healed up and he was cleared for training and field-duty. John was awfully tempted to try for a double-oh, just to say he tried. Maybe he’d get it, maybe he wouldn’t.

After signing the papers and paying the fee to close his unit, he didn’t need it anymore, John loaded his things into Clara’s Land Rover and headed back to Baker Street with Scotty, who had apparently finished whatever she was working on with Q, at least the bit of it she didn’t need a computer for.

“So, what’s the serious business in the land of plausible deniability?”

“One of M’s new agents is making some waves in the no-splash zone.”

“One of the double-ohs?”

“Looks like it. I’m not sure who it is, but Q got a look at the situation and asked for my help.”

“What kind of help are we talking about? Do I need to drop you off somewhere?”

“He has a set-up just like mine up in Cambridge, if I can link-in remotely from Notting Hill, we _might_ be able to keep better track of this double-oh than MI6 can.”

“Which is kind of pathetic if they’re losing track of their own agents.”

“Dad _and_ Uncle Mike would tell you, double-ohs don’t always play by the rules. This one seems content to play by his own rules this time.” She tapped away at her phone, completely focused and John had an idea.

“Scotty?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you keep a go-bag packed?”

“All the time. Why?”

“I’m stopping by the Notting Hill house and then I’ll drop you off at King’s Cross. This kind of job needs a personal touch, and you’ll get more done if you’re working side-by-side with Q. Besides, it’s about time you met this kid.”

“On a hack-job for MI6? Are you crazy?”

“You’re the one who flew out to Afghanistan on a hunch the day after you got to London, you don’t get to point fingers.”

“I kind of hate you right now.”

“Thank me later. I know a thing or two about subtle interference and espionage, kiddo, a game like this needs to played right. People’s lives are at stake and if you two are the best MI6 can do without knowing you’re even involved, that’s saying something.” He headed for the Notting Hill house and let her out. She wasn’t in for very long, emerging with her overnight bag and backpack after a few minutes. She also had _his_ bags. As he drove her from Notting Hill to King’s Cross Station, she transferred everything from her messenger-bag to her backpack.

“So, where are you going?”

“Trinity College. Q lives in Grasmere Gardens.”

“Right.” John sighed, wishing Scotty and Q, and whichever of M’s unfortunates they were watching, luck. Someone needed a bit of good luck, might as well be the kids. When he dropped her off, she gave him a hug.

“Go on, kiddo. Some idiot double-oh needs a couple of amateur hackers to save his sorry arse. I can’t imagine the headaches.”

“You should try for it, once you get cleared to training.” Scotty leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, “You’d be good at it. And you don’t show off, so that’s a point in your favour.”

“Are double-ohs generally show-offs, then?”

“Dad and Uncle Mike never really were, but I’ve known a couple who were and I always felt rather sorry for M. I like _this_ M much better, I think she likes me more than the other one did.”

“You’ve seen the reins change hands over there, haven’t you?”

“A couple of times. I know someone took Dad’s old number, they re-posted almost right away, but I never liked him. Dad’s number has to be _earned_ , not handed over. M wasn’t very pleased, thought they should have waited for the right agent.”

“What was Matthew Hudson’s number?”

“I don’t remember, but it was a special number. He always told me he liked his number and made M promise him that whatever agent got it next would have to earn it the hard way.”

“Isn’t it two kills to become a double-oh?”

“One of the requirements, yeah. Dad cleared that pretty quick. Apparently, his last replacement? M thought he was pretentious and distracted by “other aspects of the job”.” John could only imagine what those “other aspects” had been and snickered.

“And she wants someone specific?”

“Exactly. God bless whoever gets my dad’s number, they’ll have some big shoes to fill.”

“Well, kiddo, good luck. Stay in touch.”

“Absolutely. Thanks for everything, John. I’m glad you made it home safe.”

“Me too. See you later, Scotty.” He watched her disappear into the station and sighed. It was time to go back to Baker Street and move in. It didn’t take long to move his boxes and belongings, and after clearing the Land Rover, he moved it to the car-park three blocks away. He paid for forty-eight hours, confident he would be able to return the car to Clara in that time-frame, and locked the car. Walking back to Baker Street was all of five minutes, and as he came up on the house, he noticed someone standing outside.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me.” John sighed and ran one hand through his hair. That, if he wasn’t mistaken, was Sherlock Holmes. What the hell was he doing at Baker Street?

“Can I _help_ you, Mr Holmes?”

“I need Scotty. Well, Lestrade needs Scotty.” The lanky young detective looked him over, “I thought she would be here. Where is she?”

“Scotty’s in Cambridge, or well on her way. Something came up and she was needed up there for a job.”

“Scotty went...to Cambridge?”

“Yes. Why does that matter?”

“I have a case on and I need an assistant. Usually Scotty comes with me.”

“You said Lestrade needed Scotty.”

“He said they needed Scotty, but _I_ need Scotty.”

“Well, she took her computer with her, I’ve seen what she does. Hang on a minute.” He pocketed his keys and called Scotty.

 _“Hey. London’s not falling, is it?”_ She answered quickly, which was kind of a first for him. Most people weren’t very  _prompt_ about answering their phones.

_“Not quite. You missed a call from Lestrade, sweetie. Must’ve missed him by a hair.”_

_“Oh, no.”_

_“It’s fine. You need to be in Cambridge to figure out what the hell is going on with MI6. Once you get up there, though, you might want to call Lestrade and see what you can do for him remotely.”_

_“Yeah, that’s no problem. Jesus. Are you with Sherlock?”_

_“Found ‘im sitting on the stoop like a lost puppy.”_

“I was _not_!” The dark-haired tec objected, trailing off when John threw him a look.

 _“You’d better go with him, John._ Usually _I’m the one keeping him out of trouble.”_

_“Yeah, I got that feeling. Anything I need to know about your uncle?”_

_“No, I mean, he’ll talk a mile a minute if you get him started, he’ll probably take you apart detail by detail, in detail. Don’t let him harass the constables, keep him away from Donovan and Anderson.”_

_“Donovan and...Anderson?”_ He raised an eyebrow, didn’t miss the way Sherlock bristled at the mere mention of those names. _“Think I can manage that. Why those two?”_

_“You’ll see. Just don’t let him near them.”_

_“I’ll see what I can do for you, love. Take care of yourself.”_

_“I’m not the one running after my crazy uncle in London. Take your gun.”_

_“Do you think I’m going to need it?”_

_“Just trust me.”_

_“Can’t be the worst thing I’ll do while I’m home. Alright, thanks, love. See you soon.”_

_“Bye, John. Good luck.”_

_“You too, sweetie.”_ He hung up and pocketed his phone, looking over at Sherlock. “Alright, you mad thing. Wherever you’re going, I’m going with you. You shouldn’t be going _anywhere_ with that concussion.”

“Sorry?”

“I _said_ , you’re not going _anywhere_ with that bloody concussion. Grade 2, Sherlock, you got your brains rattled. No work means no work.”

“You can’t possibly be serious?”

“I’m dead serious. I’m also a doctor. Oh, and a soldier, before you think of trying any funny business.” He folded his arms and sized the taller man up, “You look like hell. What have you been doing all day?”

“None of your business.”

“You showed up on my fucking door-step without warning, I think it’s very much my business. Come on, inside.” He unlocked the door and held it open, “Upstairs.” Grumbling and belligerent, Sherlock made his way upstairs. John sighed as he kicked the door open.

“What on earth was _that_?” Mrs Hudson poked her head out from 221A, eyes wide. “Is everything alright, Captain?”

“It’s fine, Mrs Hudson. Very sorry about the noise.”

“Well, who’s up there? Was that Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes, yes it was.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake! That boy!” His landlady came out and stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands fisted on hips, and looked up at the door she couldn’t see. “Sherlock Holmes, you idiot! Don’t break anything! And behave yourself for Captain Watson! I’m of half a mind to let him give you a what-for, young man!”

“Mrs Hudson?” Sherlock appeared again, eyes wide.

“Well, of course, you silly thing! I mean it, Sherlock, don’t you be a pest! This is my house, and you’re Captain Watson’s guest. Do exactly what he says. The Work can wait.”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson.” Said as he slunk back inside like a kicked dog.

“You go on up, dear, I’ll be up shortly with tea and biscuits.” Mrs Hudson smiled at John and patted him on the arm, careful of his wrist.

“Er, chamomile if you’ve got it, Mrs Hudson?”

“Don’t you worry, dear, I’ve got just the thing for our feisty detective!” She winked and disappeared into her flat again. John knew there was a story here. Shrugging, he headed upstairs and found Sherlock sprawled on the couch. He hadn’t sat on anything, but John sighed.

“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head and moved into the flat, picking up one of the boxes. Taking it upstairs, he set it in the bedroom he would be staying in tonight. Downstairs, a phone started ringing. And it kept ringing.

“Watson!”

“What!” He yelled down.

“Phone’s ringing!”

“And I’m not your bloody answering service, you moron!” He snapped, going back downstairs.

“It’s Lestrade, so it’s important.”

“Did you...oh, for the love of Christ!” He snatched up the phone and answered it.

_“Hello?”_

_“Er...Sherlock?”_

_“Sorry, not Sherlock. This is John Watson. Can I do something for you, sir?”_

_“Um. Watson? Oh, hang on!”_ He could just see the man’s wheels turning. _“Oh, I know you! Scotty’s friend! What on earth are you doing answering Sherlock’s phone?”_

 _“That’s a fantastic question, wish I could say.”_ He went to the window and looked out over Baker Street, _“I’ve got him at Baker Street for the moment, Sergeant, but I don’t think he’ll be running any cases tonight, or for a while yet.”_

_“Yeah, not with that concussion. You haven’t seen Scotty, have you? She’s the one I needed.”_

_“Scotty’s on her way to Cambridge, but she’s aware of the situation and will be making contact as soon as she’s able to. I assume whatever you need her for could be accomplished remotely?”_

_“Oh. Damn. Yeah, it can. Fuck. What is she doing in Cambridge?”_

_“_ PD, _is what she said.”_

_“P...D?”_

_“Plausible deniability.”_

_“Got it. Boy, I can only imagine what was serious enough she split town for Cambridge. I’ll let Mycroft_ know, _before he panics.”_

_“He’ll find out before we can tell him, Lestrade. I wouldn’t worry. This kind of concerns his work anyway.”_

_“Oh, no. You’re kidding me.”_

_“I wish I was.”_

_“Well, as long as he’s not the guilty party, I suppose that’s alright.”_

_“No, I was under the impression one of the other agents in the Section was causing mischief abroad. Don’t ask me how a couple of teenage hackers got this ahead of the agency finding out or doing anything about it, but they did.”_

_“Scotty’s smart, and whoever her partner-in-crime is, they’re pretty impressive, too.”_ Lestrade sounded impressed. John suspected that Scotty and Q had helped out on cases before, between bouts of sparring.

 _“Q, she said?_ Name _doesn’t mean a damn thing to me, but they know what they’re doing, I guess.”_

_“I guess. Well, I’ll be in touch about this case. If we really need Sherlock, I’ll stop by.”_

_“Roger that, Sergeant._ Sorry _your consultants are kind of unavailable.”_

_“That’s fine. Just try to keep Sherlock from destroying anything. He gets kind of destructive when he’s bored.”_

_“Yeah, I get that feeling. Talk to you later, Lestrade.”_ John hung up the phone and pocketed it.

“You don’t get your phone back." This he said to Sherlock, who looked at him expectantly. “That was Lestrade. He needed Scotty, like you said. If they end up needing you, he’ll come by. I get the feeling he’ll find us no problem.”

“Why were you nice to him?”

“Because he’s a cop and I have respect for the likes of him. Remember what I said at breakfast, Sherlock? I meant it.” He looked at the man on his couch, “Be nice to people, they’ll be nice to you.”

“Are you being nice to me?”

“No, I’m trying to keep you from making your injuries worse. How’s your head?”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve had a Grade 2 concussion, Sherlock, recently as two months ago. I was lucky it didn’t get worse with the ambush.” He leaned over the detective, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were high, your eyes are blood-shot and dilated. That would be a phenomenal lapse of judgement on your part.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because your brother would probably have me killed in my sleep if something happened while you were in my custody. And yes, you are in my custody right now. And you’re going to remain so until I say you can go. Shut your mouth, I’m saving your life.” He took Sherlock’s uninjured wrist and measured a thready, erratic pulse. It explained a bit of his behaviour and John sighed. Footsteps heralded Mrs Hudson with a tray. Hot tea and biscuits.

“Just this once, dear, I’m not a house-keeper.” She said as she set the tray down.

“Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson.” John smiled benignly at his kind landlady, who gave his shoulder a squeeze before she turned on Sherlock.

“Whatever mischief you’re up to, Sherlock Holmes, you be grateful to Watson. He’s willing to look out for you.” All they got was sullen silence. John hadn’t expected more than that, so he didn’t really care. He put a cup of tea down on the coffee table next to the couch and took the grey chair.

“Drink that, I suspect you’ll feel a bit better with something in your stomach.” He indicated the cup. Sherlock rolled and picked it up, petulant to the last. John wasn’t fazed by the petulance at all. He wasn’t infinitely patient, but he hadn’t pushed his limits with Sherlock yet. The man needed help, needed looking after, and John was content to give him a bit of attention while Scotty was out of town keeping a double-oh from causing too much mischief.

* * *

 


	8. Casino Royale: London - Cambridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty's bound for Cambridge to meet Q and help out on a job for MI6. Things are about to get very interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the crossover with Bond begins. Familiar, beloved characters feature. Q, for all intents and very selfish purposes, is a Holmes. Deal with it.

* * *

While John wrangled Sherlock in London, Scotty was train-bound for Cambridge to meet Q and see what could be done to keep MI6’s latest double-oh agent out of hot water. She was working en-route, tracking the pair of agents in Madagascar. So far nothing terrible had happened, but Scotty had the feeling it was only a matter of time before things turned violent. There was one agent she had a feeling about, he was very likely to blow cover and spook the mark into a run. If that happened, she fully anticipated needing to mess with a couple of security cameras, and she was going to need a better computer than her laptop for that, so she was really hoping the two double-oh idiots could keep themselves out of trouble long enough for her to get to Q’s place and patch into his network before doing anything drastic.

 

An hour and a half later, she finally reached the Westbrook Centre bus-stop and had to run. The agents’ cover had been blown at a betting fight between a mongoose and a cobra and she had to get to Q before anything else happened. Slamming her laptop shut, she shoved it into her backpack, grabbed her go-bag, and bolted from the bus. She made the seven-minute walk to the Grasmere Gardens flat in three at a flat sprint and barely knocked before the door it flew open and she bolted past Q, who pointed the way to a bedroom set up as a work-room.

“Have they reached the Embassy yet?”

“No. I hope you know some camera-magic.”

“My speciality is cameras. Are we patched in?”

“Every camera I can get him on.” Q gave her a station and she set up her laptop, syncing her headset to the proper channels as she did so and getting hold of the Nambutu Embassy cameras in Antananarivo.

“What are we up against?”

“Mark’s name is...Mollaka, the agent in question is a new one.”

“Name?”

“Bond.”

“Hmm. Looks like a bit of trouble.” She got to work on the Embassy cameras and started altering feeds. Whatever happened next could _not_ be caught on camera. Without camera evidence, it was all speculation. Bond, the agent in question, was fairly young, and _very_ new to his station. Reckless, handsome (unfairly so, if you asked Scotty), and perfect for a double-oh. She managed to hack the Embassy cameras right in the nick of time and she and Q were scrambling to alter footage in real-time. It wasn’t the hardest thing to do, but she had certainly had easier times. As he fled the Embassy after setting off an explosion by shooting a gas-tank, backpack in hand, Scotty and Q tracked him through local cameras. At one point, hidden in what was potentially a blind-spot, he looked up, right at the camera, and smiled. He wrote something on a piece of paper, a piece of cardboard from the street, and held it up to the camera.

“How did...?”

“Oh, he’s smart, isn’t he?” Q chuckled as Bond, whoever he was, winked, waved, and dared to blow the camera a kiss. He knew they were watching. The sign read “Thanks for the save”.

“Q? We’ve got trouble at his ten.” She had spotted members of the local police force closing in on Bond’s location.

“Oh shit. He can’t see them, can he?”

“We have his com-link?”

“We’ve had it the whole time.”

“Shit.” She entered a couple of key-strokes, patched into Bond’s com-link, and adjusted her headset. “Agent Bond, there’s six police approaching on your ten from the east. You need to get out of there. There’s an escape point half a block from your location. Get moving.” They watched as Bond fled his current location.

_“Can you get me to the UK Embassy?”_

“We have control of most of the city’s cameras, we can see you. Do what we tell you, we’ll get you to the Embassy.” Q muttered.

 

The next few hours were spent playing a game of hide-and-seek with local police and helping Bond get to the Embassy. As soon as he was inside, and had claimed asylum, Scotty cut her feed and pushed her headset off to hang around her neck, leaning back in her chair.

“Well, that was...fun.” She chuckled, “Jesus, I wasn’t expecting to tamper with cameras like _that_ when I came up here.”

“How long do you think it’s going to take them to realize what we did?”

“I’ll give M until tomorrow.” She stretched her arms over her head, “Jesus.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Sorry?” she looked over as Q got to his feet.

“Have you eaten?”

“Oh. Uh. No? No. Not since...lunch, I think?” She shrugged.

“I think better on a full stomach. What sounds good?”

“I’ll eat anything. Getting anyone in my family to take a break for food is damn near impossible.” Scotty looked over her shoulder as he rooted around for something, “You’re not one of those, are you?”

“Unlike the rest of _my_ family, I happen to enjoy eating.” Oh, that tone of voice. Scotty snickered and turned to watch her impromptu host and partner-in-crime. He was tall, just shy of six-foot, with riotously curly dark hair. He _kind_ of reminded her of Sherlock and she honestly wondered if he was a relation. Which would make them...cousins? He wasn’t a sibling, she didn’t think.

“So, in the interest of full disclosure and before we find out the hard way, what’s your last name?”

“Uh, Holmes. Why?”

“Seriously?” She stared at him, “I was right?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Uh, because...I was a Hudson until a month ago. I’m Mariam Holmes.”

“Holy shit!”

“I know. Which one are you, then?”

“Y’know, you got lucky?”

“Mariam Scott Raileigh Holmes is _lucky_?” She raised an eyebrow, “What kind of name did you get stuck with then?”

“What do you think Q is short for?”

“Which name?”

“Middle.”

“Holmeses have three names, for whatever reason, so...Q...” She thought of several names that started with Q while he placed a phone-call to a nearby takeaway restaurant. It had to be something fairly outrageous if he had all but disowned it.

“So, does this make us cousins, then?” she asked when he came back.

“Mycroft and Sherlock are my first cousins, which would make _us_...second cousins?”

“Fine with me.” She shrugged, “Nice to put a face to the name I’ve been talking to for a year.” She snickered, wondering if anyone else had a clue that she and Q had been talking to each other for far longer than she had been in London. Q and John were the only two people who had a full picture of how her life had been prior to running away from Seattle.

“Likewise.” Q leaned over the back of her chair, “Now what are you doing?”

“Messing with Seattle PD.” She hacked into the familiar servers, “Just business as usual.”

“You take an awful lot of enjoyment out of hacking their servers.”

“It’s fun to do it, and this was the first time I broke a server like that. Besides, they all know it’s me messing with them.” She dropped a few goodies into the system and waited for the inevitable phone-call.

“Do they call every time?”

“Yep. Without fail.” Scotty grinned and answered the call, syncing her headset to her phone. “Afternoon, Chief.”

_“Up to your usual, Hudson?”_

“Sorry, sir.”

_“No, you’re not. How’s London?”_

“I’m in Cambridge at the moment. London’s fine.” She looked over her shoulder as a knock on the door interrupted. “Can’t say the same for the Nambutu Embassy in Antananarivo.”

_“Antana-where now?”_

“Antananarivo, boss. Madagascar.”

_“Oh, you didn’t.”_

“I absolutely did.” She watched Q come back in with bags of food, which he hefted in offering. “Ooh.”

_“What’s that wistful whine about?”_

“My cousin ordered Chinese for dinner, I haven’t eaten since noon-ish.”

_“Cousin? You’ve got family in Cambridge?”_

“Yeah, I do.” She took one of the takeaway containers from Q and a set of offered chopsticks. “He’s pretty cute, which doesn’t hurt at all.”

“Oi.”

“Oh, stop, you’ve got the family good looks of tall, dark, and handsome going for you.” She rolled her eyes at him, grinning when he turned a rather cute shade of pink.

_“Scotty, you were the tallest person in your family, and far and away the only one with dark hair.”_

“Yeah, Dad never told you I was adopted, did he?”

_“You were?”_

“Yep.”

 _“Holy shit.”_ Morrison let out a slow breath, _“Don’t tell me you found your biological family out there?”_

“My biological father is the one who picked me up in Vancouver and brought me home to London. I’ve got quite a bit of family left, and I ran into my cousin. He’s at school here in Cambridge and needed my help on a job.”

 _“Hang on. This isn’t your hacker buddy_ from _Cambridge, is it?”_

“Might’ve been the same person.”

 _“Well, I’ll be damned.”_ Morrison chuckled. He knew about Q, just hadn’t ever met him. _“So, what kind of job were you two possibly involved in that required hacking cameras in a third-world country?”_

“PD, Chief.” She coughed discretely. Q just raised an eyebrow. 

_“Damn it, Hudson. What now?”_

“CCTV-cameras in Antananarivo. Had to mess with footage and get someone out of a tight spot. May or may not have to go down to London to vouch for him.”

_“God damn it, Scotty.”_

“I make zero apologies, sir.” She looked at Q, who rolled his eyes. “Our man made it out alive.” Whether his job was in-tact remained to be seen.

_“Well, whatever it is you crazy kids are up to over there, take care.”_

“Roger that, Chief. Talk to you later.”

_“Until next time, Hudson. Stay out of trouble.”_

“We make no promises.” She hung up with Morrison and dug into her mixed vegetable curry. “Thanks for the food.”

“I imagine you actually _eat_ when given a chance.”

“I like to.” She shrugged, “I kind of took over the kitchen at the Queensdale Road house.”

“So you do the cooking?”

“Matthew Hudson taught me when I was little. He taught me a lot of things.” She poked at her food. It was quiet only until they got a Skype-call from London. It wasn’t a number either of them recognized, which meant someone had tattled on them.

“Willing to bet this one’s M?”

“I’m not a betting man.” Q shrugged.

“You’re no fun.” She clicked into the call and let the image stabilise.

“Oh, I hate being right.”

_“Hello, Scotty.”_

“M.” Scotty cleared her throat, “What can we do for MI6, ma’am?”

_“I’ll keep this brief. I seem to have lost one of my agents in...”_

“Antananarivo, Madagascar, ma’am?”

_“Yes. I need to locate him and return him to London.”_

“Where, precisely, did you lose him, ma’am?”

_“Just outside the Nambutu Embassy. We lost audio, cameras, tracking. We can’t seem to find him anywhere.”_

“Oh, is that all?” She looked at Q, wondering if this was a good time to admit that she and Q had hacked the cameras, altered the footage of the Embassy attack, and helped the agent in question reach asylum at the UK Embassy.

 _“We know there was an engagement at the Embassy, we’ve had reports of gunfire and extensive damage, but we have no_ proof _anything happened there.”_

“You lost cameras, didn’t you?”

_“Yes. And we aren’t certain if it was interference on our end or theirs. And to make matters worse, someone got our com-link.”_

“Which of your agents went missing, M?”

_“You’re never going to believe this, or maybe you will. It was your father’s replacement.”_

“The replacement for Matthew Hudson’s replacement, you mean? The one you’ve been waiting for?”

_“Yes.”_

“What’s his name, M? We can probably find him for you.”

_“Bond. James Bond. He’s a sly piece of work, and I may live to regret making him 007.”_

“Hang on!” Scotty coughed, “Wait a minute! That’s 007!”

“Oh my god.” Q went pale. They had just spent an hour and a half helping the errant new 007 escape from God alone knows what kind of trouble.

“Oh my god.”

_“Do you know where he is, Scotty?”_

“Y-yes, ma’am. If he’s smart, he’s still at the UK Embassy in Antananarivo. Give me a minute.” She swung to another station and entered a couple of keystrokes, crossing her fingers. The sigh of relief was audible between Scotty and Q when the tracker popped up. They were tracking the GPS of his mobile, so unless he’d ditched it, he was still in Madagascar.

_“Well?”_

“According to his GPS, ma’am, he’s still at the Embassy. You might want to extract him sooner than later. We’ll be around if you need us.”

 _“I would like the footage that doesn’t seem to exist. I know you’re a wizard with cameras, if you can find it for me, that would be very useful.”_ M levelled her with a stern look, _“I’m not sure what mischief you and that partner of yours are getting up to in Cambridge, but you might just have saved me an agent.”_

“Who’s continued livelihood and safety are only assured until he returns to MI6?”

_“Quite. Bring him home, you two.”_

“Yes, ma’am.” Scotty looked at Q. “Do you want us in London for the debrief?”

_“Yes.”_

“We’ll be there first thing in the morning, ma’am.” She sighed, wondering how the hell she and Q were supposed to coordinate and organize an extraction. Q looked at his watch and then at Scotty and shook his head. This kind of work couldn’t happen in Cambridge. This house was Q’s residence, it didn’t belong to the university, and seeing as classes had been out for almost a week, there were no obligations to keep him in Cambridge so leaving for London again would be simple. Scotty hung up with M while Q collected their bags, packing up their laptops very carefully.

“So, how are we getting to London? I took the train to get up here.”

“We’ll drive back. I’ve a car.”

“Works for me.” She took her bags and followed him out. After locking up the house, they got on the road, taking a beat-up but capable Mitsubishi Shogun. Q did the driving, Scotty used her laptop and a wi-fi dongle to track Bond. An hour and a half later, they pulled into the underground car-park at MI6 and headed into the building. Scotty was and wasn’t surprised when Anthea met them. She was on the com-link with Bond at the time, trying to talk him out of leaving the Embassy.

“Stay put, 007, whatever you do. We’ll come to you.” She looked up as she followed Q and Anthea into a control room, “Can you hang on a minute? Just stay put.”

_“Is M there?”_

“Yes, 007, she’s here.” She sighed and looked around for somewhere to put down her stuff. “I’m taking this work-station. Q, you’re at that one. Let’s bring Agent Bond home, people.” Oh, boy, the looks they got for just kind of walking in and taking over from the people who actually did extraction and recon for a living. But Scotty didn’t care about that, she had work to do. Patching into the MI6 networks took no time at all, and in no time, she was giving orders to a team of agents to go and pick up Bond and bring him home to London.

“Holmes, what do you need from us?” M came to their stations and stood between them, looking at the large monitors on the walls just beyond, displaying now what Scotty and Q had been looking at for almost two hours.

“I have your com-links, databases, and networks already, ma’am. And I’ve got a lead on 007’s location at this time. Say hello, Bond.”

_“Hello, M.”_

“Hello, James.” M shook her head. “Stay put while we get you out of there, understand me?”

 _“Perfectly, ma’am.”_ A bit insincere, but Scotty had the feeling he wasn’t quite that stupid.

 

**:-:**

 

It took the rest of the night and the whole of the following day, but Scotty and Q were able to pull James Bond out of Madagascar without further international incident, and she handed over the original footage _and_ the doctored footage of the chase and show-down in Antananarivo.

“How did you _do_ that, Holmes?” M asked as they viewed the footage during their debrief.

“I happen to be rather good with cameras, ma’am.”

“I can see that. Who is your...partner?”

“Q, ma’am.” She coughed, looking sideways at her father, who stood just a bit to her right and behind her, trying so hard not to smile. He wasn’t supposed to be proud of her right now, but he was _very_ pleased and it showed.

“Relation?”

“Cousins, ma’am. Second cousins.”

“How on earth did you two meet?”

“By accident.”

“There are no accidents.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Very well. Thank you, Scotty, Q, you...accomplished what an entire department could not, in a fraction of the time.”

“We had been tracking him most of the day, ma’am, so when things started heading south in Antananarivo, we were already prepared for the worst.”

“You saved his life.”

“And he’s never going to know that it was a couple of teenagers who pulled his sorry arse out of Madagascar.”

“Of course not.” Her smile was a bit insincere. Bond would eventually find out about Scotty and Q’s hacking wizardry that had saved him, but it would probably take a while. He knew someone had been watching him, but not who they were.

“Dismissed, Holmes.”

“Ma’am.” Scotty ducked her head and left the office, Q in tow behind her. Coming out, she bumped into someone else.

“Oi!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear the door open.”

“Don’t stand in the way, will you?” She snapped, straightening up from a near fall. She hadn’t fallen backwards thanks to the man she’d bumped into catching her. Looking up, Scotty froze.

“Oh. Oh my god.” She would be damned if that wasn’t James Bond. He looked just like his dossier photos, but far more handsome in person. Not quite as tall as the men of her family, but certainly above average, pale like all Caucasians tended to be but tanned up enviably well, with high-cut blonde hair bleached by exposure to the sun, and the brightest blue eyes Scotty had ever seen on a living person. He also had a rather nice smile, she decided. All of this data was deduced and filed away, along with bits of his history she could read on him.

“They’re recruiting young these days, aren’t they?” He just smiled and set her on her feet. “So sorry I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Oh, no! That’s...it’s fine, actually. It’s all fine.” Scotty held onto the strap of her bag so tight her knuckles turned white. “I was in a hurry, shouldn’t have been.”

“Bond!” M yelled from inside. Scotty, Q, and Bond all three cringed. Before he stepped into the office, he caught Scotty by the arm and pulled her closer, leaning in so she would be the only person he spoke to.

“Thanks.” He whispered. “For Antananarivo.”

“Yeah.” She breathed. “N-no problem.” Fuck. How the hell did he know she was the same person who’d pulled him from Antananarivo? He had no idea what she looked like, all he knew about her, or about Q, was the...oh. Audio. All he knew about them was the sound of their voices. Damn. Then, just like he had in Antananarivo, he threw her a flirty wink and was gone into the office. As the door closed behind him, shutting off the dressing-down he had to stand for from M while her father stood by and just smiled like he knew the greatest secret in the world, which he didn’t really, Scotty shared a look with Q.

“Shit.”

“Say _that_ again.” She groaned, covering her face with both hands, “Damn it, Q!”

“Come on, love, let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah. After you. Uh, where are we going?”

“Somewhere to unwind from that madness.” He thumbed over his shoulder at M’s office.

“Lead on.” She yawned. They left MI6 and drove dark, quiet streets to a flat in Primrose Hill. They parked on the street outside an apartment block on Avenue Road and St Edmund’s Terrace and she followed Q inside. It was an older building, but it was a charming little place. His was on the ground floor, with a unique character foyer that let out through separate doorways into different parts of the flat. She would see the place after getting some sleep, and she didn’t particularly care if they shared a bed or slept separately. Q showed her the work-room, where they were content to leave their backpacks.

“I’ve got a spare room, but it’s not much for guests.”

“I don’t care if you don’t.” She shrugged. “I just need a bed.”

“Through there.” He pointed the way towards what turned out to be the master suite. As she brushed her teeth in the en-suite, she was aware of something brushing against her ankle and looked down.

“What in the...oh. Oh! Hi!”

“Scotty?”

“You didn’t tell me you had cats!” She giggled and quickly spit and rinsed her toothbrush, setting it on the shelf above the sink, leaning down to pet the cat busy winding it’s way between her feet, making soft, pitiful noises. “Aw, you’re cute!”

“Cats? I don’t...oh no.” He stuck his head in as she picked the animal up. “How did _you_ get in here, you little monster?”

“Oh, don’t say that!” Scotty made a face, “I take it this one’s a house-breaker of sorts, then?”

“Yeah. Don’t have a clue where she lives or how she gets in. But I keep finding her in here.”

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?”

“You’re a cat-person?”

“Dogs, cats, either or.” She shrugged, “Looks like she might be a Siamese. Someone took care of her before she got lost.” The cat was very pretty and ridiculously affectionate. Scotty giggled as the cat decided to climb onto her shoulders. “Oi!”

“I guess she likes you.”

“I guess! Alright, you impossible thing. Do we have to find you a name, then?”

“We’re _keeping_ her?”

“Oh, stop.” She rolled her eyes at Q, “You haven’t been trying _that_ hard to keep her out of your flat, even when you’re not home.  I take it you left notices everywhere you could think of advertising for a lost cat of this one’s description and no one ever came to claim her?”

“Not after four months. She had a collar but no tags, and one day she showed without her collar.”

“We’ll get her a collar tomorrow. You’ve had her seen to by a vet?”

“Absolutely. First thing I did. She has a chip, but the information on it’s no good.”

“We’ll take care of that, too. Alright, down you go.” She set the cat down as she got to the bedroom, “You’re allowed in here, but this is where _we_ sleep. Plenty of other places for you to curl up around here.” That got her a slightly disgusted look before the cat decided to slip out.

“She listened to you.”

“Does she usually not?”

“Stubborn as the rest of us are.” Q chuckled and closed the door.

“Well, at any rate, that is a proper bed.” She eyed up the standard double, “God bless you for a double. I sleep on a single over at the Queensdale house.” It fit her style and her room, so she didn’t mind, but she appreciated people who had room for a double or, like John at Baker Street, a king.

“You don’t kick in your sleep, do you?”

“Nope. At least, I don’t think I kick in my sleep.” She sat down on one side of the bed, wondering why none of this struck her as odd. She blamed the craziness of helping MI6 close up one hell of a mission, the ebbing adrenaline. Scotty had never actually used her skills to save someone’s life that like, not before she intervened for John two months ago in Afghanistan, and for his brother Everett more recently. Nothing she would ever regret. 

* * *

 


	9. Casino Royale: London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now on the rosters for MI6 as the handlers for 007, Scotty and Q have their hands full. With things quiet at the office, just for the moment, Scotty gets some domestic work in with The Met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 marked the start of the James Bond crossover elements, that thread continues here. This is the events of Casino Royale (personally one of my favorite Bond films) as seen from the domestic side of things. I tinkered with the timeline a bit as needed, time is kind of a fluid thing in the Bondverse anyway, so I imagine there could be some tweaking done as necessary by the whims of any writer.

* * *

Scotty slept like the dead following her intervention on James Bond’s behalf while he was raising hell in Madagascar, and subsequently slept for the equivalent of two days. She and Q would wake up for short intervals, eat, drink, take care of business, and return to bed. On the third day, they woke up to messages from three different people. There were two potential jobs on the docket for them, and both were pretty important. So, Scotty called M, since that job took precedence.

_“Holmes.”_

“M. What can we do for you?”

_“Bond’s gone missing again. Find him.”_

“Oh, great. Do you have any leads?”

_“I believe he is somewhere in the Bahamas. You know what he looks like, you know how he moves. Find him and get back to me.”_

“Yes, ma’am.” She wasn’t sure why M was suddenly entrusting Scotty and Q with her newest double-oh, but that was fine. They knew enough about business to make sure things didn’t go completely sideways. Once she had the job for MI6 rostered, and GPS tracking running on Bond using his phone, Scotty called Greg Lestrade to see what _he_ wanted. She had already solved the case he had initially called her for right before she left London to meet Q in Cambridge, this had to be something new.

 _“Homicide, Lestrade.”_ Going by the way he answered his phone, and the background noise, she either had him in the office or out on a scene. She raised an eyebrow and looked over at Q, who was messing around with something else on one of his computers.

“Morning, Inspector. Scotty Holmes here.”

_“Oh, Scotty! Oh, thank god! Christ, I’m so sorry to bother you, but...”_

“You need somebody good with computers again?”

_“I am so sorry. Do you mind?”_

“Nope. Don’t mind at all.” She checked her tracking on Bond, nothing yet. “What can we do for you?”

_“I was hoping you might be able to come down and collect a couple of hard-drives from evidence for me.”_

“Sure. Where are you?”

_“I’m at the office. I got a case that looks awfully familiar, and I remembered a few hard-drives we took from a case two months ago. If the data’s not corrupted, I was hoping you might be able to recover something for us.”_

“Oh, sure, no problem!” She looked at her watch, tracking could take a while. “What needs recovering?”

_“Child pornography. I know how you feel about that kind of thing, but you’re good at recovering data and a lot faster about it than the rest of the guys.”_

“Well, since I’m more or less a CI, your lot can’t bitch about a teenager being better at their fucking jobs than they are. You have permission to get my help.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead, “You know this is the third time in two months I’ve done something like this for you?”

_“I know, I’m so sorry. I’m just...grateful you’re willing to risk a trigger to help someone else.”_

_“_ I’ll always help someone else out of the kind of trouble I was in.” She got up from her station and started collecting her stuff. “I can be there in...twenty minutes.” Q tossed her the keys to the Mitsubishi.

“Thanks, love. Keep an eye on our idiot double-oh, will you?” She leaned over the back of his chair and kissed him on the cheek, lowering her phone for a minute. “Call if he comes up on tracking?”

“Absolutely. Good luck with The Met.” Q turned his head and she almost dropped her phone completely when, in a perfectly orchestrated accident, they kissed. It wasn’t much, but she froze. Holy shit.

 _“Hey, Scotty?”_ Lestrade’s voice pulled her back to the present and she pulled away from Q.

“Damn it, Q, I’ve gotta go!” She hoped she wouldn’t be blushing like an idiot by the time she got to The Met offices on Victoria where Lestrade worked. “Hey, Greg, yeah. Sorry about that. I’m on my way now.”

_“Alright, kiddo. Be safe. You know the routine.”_

“Yep. See you in twenty.” She hung up and pocketed her phone, turning on her cousin, “And _you_!”

“That was an accident!”

“Really?”

“Well...maybe not.”

“Yeah, didn’t think it was.” She looked him over, “Well?”

“You’re...”

“Yeah. Come ‘ere.”

“Really?”

“Benjamin Quinton James Holmes, get your arse out of that chair and get over here.”

“Yes’m.” Well, that worked, too. Scotty blamed John for teaching her about kissing and _enjoying_ it. There was something inherently awkward about teenagers kissing, but it was the comfortable kind of awkward because neither of them really knew what they were doing and were a little clumsy.*

“Whoa.” Q blinked when they separated.

“Thank my pen-pal, he’s the one who taught me.” She smiled, “Call if Bond comes up on tracking?”

“Yeah. Sure. Um. When are you going to be back?”

“Forty-five minutes? Maybe. An hour, to be safe.”

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll let you know if I find Bond.”

“And then I’ll tell M.” Scotty giggled, “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not!”

“I feel like we could do that better.”

“It’s a beautiful thing called practice.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek before heading out the door.

 

**:-:**

 

It was a twenty-minute drive from St John’s Wood to Victoria Street and she found parking in a nearby car-park, walking five minutes to The Met from the car-park. When she got to Lestrade’s office, she was a little surprised to find John there ahead of her.

“What are _you_ doing here?” She eyed her pen-pal up suspiciously, “Sherlock hasn’t done anything that stupid, has he?”

“Scotty. Good of you to join us.” Lestrade gave her a smug look and she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up.”

“Scotty.”

“None of your business anyway, is it?” She sniffed. “Speaking of which. Do you have those hard-drives for me?”

“Yep. Right here.” He held out a carry-case, “If we’re lucky, our division hasn’t botched it and corrupted the data already. I _really_ need the data from those drives.”

“I’ll get on that. How many victims?”

“We’re not sure yet, but it’s getting into double-digits.”

“Right. I’ll help you put this scum behind bars no problem.” She put the case in her messenger bag. It was actually Q’s bag, but he didn’t seem to mind her borrowing it for this outing.

“That’s...not your bag, is it?”

“No. I borrowed this.”

“From whom?” Lestrade looked her over, “You’ve been off-radar for two days, sweetie. We tried reaching you earlier, but Mycroft told us your phones were off. Said you needed the sleep more than you needed the work.”

“I hope you realize, he thinks you and Q actually work for MI6?” John leaned against the desk and studied her, “We haven’t told him otherwise.”

“You know, I do _not_ have to stand here for this kind of abuse?”

“Who _is_ it, Scotty? Just give us a name!”

“Not that it’s _any_ of your business, but his name is Q. Yes, that’s the name he goes by. I do know his full name, might be one of the only people who actually does.”

“Q. That’s a name for you. Is this your friend from Cambridge?” Lestrade tilted his head, still smiling.

“Yeah. We’ve sort of started informally working for MI6 as minders for one of theirs.”

“This related to the job that took you to Cambridge three days ago?”

“Yep.”

“And...you’ve been staying with Q since then?”

“Yes, I have.”

“He has a place in St John’s Wood.” John filled in. Of course he would have done his research on Q as soon as he had a chance. “I don’t usually vet people like that, but I have no complaints about this kid, Greg. He’s good for it.”

“Well, you just tell your little boyfriend that one wrong move and you’ve got a friend of interest in The Met with a pair of handcuffs I’m not afraid to break out for a good cause.”

“Don’t worry, Q’s not that stupid. It’s not just you he’d be facing in a firing-squad, Greg.” Scotty knew she was blushing, “I think Mycroft would have something to say if anything went sideways.”

“I should sure hope he does! Jesus, I’m kind of surprised he let you out of the city like that the other day. You were just kind of...gone when I came around looking. He said it was important.”

“Well, I had fun with some cameras in a third-world country and I left Q GPS-hunting for our mark in the Bahamas. Apparently, he took off again without permission.”

“This guy went AWOL?”

“Kind of.”

“He’s allowed to do that?”

“Not _quite_.” John grinned, and Scotty wondered what he knew about Bond. “But the idiot Scotty and Q having been put on as minders is a bit of a renegade. Fucking bloodhound, he is. Put this guy on a scent and he’ll go until the trail’s cold and still keep going. Picked up a lead in...Madagascar, I think, and came back here after an exciting wrap-up, next thing we know he’s split town again heading for the Bahamas looking for leads.”

“PD work?”

“Very much PD work.”

“Got it.” Lestrade’s smile broadened, “I’m impressed you made yourself so useful so quickly, Scotty.”

“I broke the firewalls and got into the mainframes at MI6 three days ago, it wasn’t that hard to figure out where this guy went and stepping in before he got into serious diplomatic trouble was a race to the finish.”

“Well, trust a Holmes to see the job done right.” Lestrade chuckled, “I’ll let you go, kiddo. Get back to me when you’ve got something on those stupid drives.”

“Roger that.” Scotty flipped a jaunty salute and left Lestrade’s office. John, not surprisingly, followed her out.

“See ya, Greg!”

“Take care, John! See you later!”

“Time and place of your choosing, sir.” John just waved as he caught up with Scotty. Without missing a beat, or caring that they were in public, he put an arm around her shoulders.

“So, I’m ridiculously grateful you’re not quite as tall as the rest of your family just yet.”

“I’m hardly done growing.”

“Precisely. You’ll be a lovely tall thing when you’ve reached your height.” He smiled. “So, back to St John’s for you?”

“Yeah, I left Q on GPS-tracking duty. He hasn’t called yet.” She checked her phone. Nothing yet. “Whatever 007 got himself into, he’s going to need friendly eyes on as long as we can see him.”

“He does realize that there’s no hiding from a couple of Holmeses?”

“You should have seen the thank you note he left us in Antananarivo.” She grinned, “He knew we were there, John, I don’t know how he knew. But he knew we were there. I ran into him after our debriefing two days ago. He didn’t say anything, but I think he recognized us.”

“He absolutely did. Came to find me and asked if I knew anything about the two youngsters he caught coming out of M’s office right before his debrief.”

“I bet he did.”

“His exact words were “Who are those two cute young things who look like twins but can’t be more than cousins? I need names.””

“Yeah, right!”

“I swear! That’s what he said to me!”

“Okay, first of all, how the _hell_ do you know James Bond? You know him from somewhere.”

“Service. He was Navy SBS, I was Army Special Forces. We crossed paths a couple of times over the years.” John shrugged as they passed through the bullpen on their way out of the division offices, shooting a dirty look at one desk in particular. Donovan, who just glared right back.

“He heard your name a long time before that mess in Antananarivo. I gave him so much shit for that, too.”

“You’re friends with him.” That wasn’t a question.

“He’s a good friend of mine, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves a double-oh more than he does. He doesn’t always play by the rules, but that’s what makes him so effective.”

“Did he really call us cute young things?”

“Yes, he did. Always been a bit of a Casanova, but duty came first every time.” John chuckled, “You’re a good kid, Scotty Holmes. Street-smart.”

“I’m nothing special.” She shrugged.

“You are, too. Sweetie, you saved my sorry hide at least once, and you’re looking after a friend of mine, a job no one actually asked you to do. But you do it anyway.” He looked at her as they left the station, “You’re a special girl, Scotty. Don’t ever change.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you work for MI6?”

“Absolutely. Not every day I get that chance again.”

“Again?” Scotty blinked, “You’ve...”

“A _long_ time ago, well before we had a thing to do with each other. I punched my ticket out before I got too far, but I always wondered if I’d be able to come back.”

“Go for a double-oh, John. You’d be good at it.” Scotty smiled, leaning against him as they walked down the street together. “Once you’re cleared to training, go for it. M isn’t going to mind.”

“Maybe I will.” He followed her to the car and she offered him a ride back to Baker Street, seeing as she lived not that far from him just at the moment. It was a quiet, comfortable drive and he kissed her before he got out.

“Thanks for the ride, Scotty. Take care of yourself, hear?”

“No problem. Good luck with my uncle.” She smiled. John rolled his eyes and she waited until he had closed the door before she rejoined traffic and headed north for Q’s. He was right where she’d left him, and he had a lead on Bond. So they called it in to M, went on stand-by, and started on the hard-drives Lestrade had sent with her.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I did my research, and intimate relations between cousins of any degree are not frowned upon in the UK or Europe like they are here in America. I kind of took that and ran with it. It's NOT incest, Q is first cousin to Mycroft and Sherlock and second cousin to Scotty. So, when Scotty and Q get smoochy, it's allowed where they are.


	10. Casino Royale: MI6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty and Q continue monitoring 007 as he takes part in a high-stakes poker tournament. The stakes might just be a bit higher than anyone originally anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 marked the start of the James Bond crossover elements, that thread continues here. This is the events of Casino Royale (personally one of my favorite Bond films) as seen from the domestic side of things. I tinkered with the timeline a bit as needed, time is kind of a fluid thing in the Bondverse anyway, so I imagine there could be some tweaking done as necessary by the whims of any writer.
> 
> This is the meat of Casino Royale, the way Scotty and Q see it in London.

* * *

A few days later, Scotty and Q were once again running damage-control. This time, in Miami.

“Oh, shit.” Scotty watched the footage on a live-stream, “Oh. Shit. Oh no. What is he doing?”

“Getting himself killed is what it looks like. Moron.” Q muttered, rolling his eyes. Bond’s foot-chase ended as he was arrested, or at the very least detained, but the suspect wasn’t getting away with anything. As they learned when he blew himself up.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bond!” Scotty coughed. “What the hell was that!”

“Oh, boy, that’s going to bite someone in the arse, isn’t it?” Q raised an eyebrow. “Well, could’ve been worse.”

“By how _much_?”

“The airline’s parent company would have gone bankrupt and lost millions in stocks. When that kind of thing happens, someone else reaps the bounty.” Q shrugged, “The question is, who was in line to profit this time?”

“Time to go do some hunting.” Scotty sighed and set down her takeaway container, getting busy on her computer.

 

Twenty-four hours later, they had names, locations, and the opportunity of a lifetime. A high-stakes poker tournament was being held in Montenegro, an attempt by a private banker known only as Le Chiffre to recover money lost when Bond got in the way a planned bombing in Miami. He was a very wanted man at the moment, and his clients were _not_ pleased. Against her better judgment, M decided to send Bond to Montenegro to take part in the tournament, which was being held at the Casino Royale. Her other option was sending in John, but he was still on injured reserve and couldn’t play with a bum wrist. So, they slapped a couple of trackers on Bond and sent him on his merry way. After all, he _was_ the agency’s best poker-player, the only person his equal in the whole place was John.

 

**:-:**

 

Scotty and Q spent three days preparing for the mission, doing their research on the other players, getting names and affiliations, and Scotty spent three days hacking the camera-networks, servers, and mainframes of the casino. She had key-card swipes, room-charges, facial-rec, everything was hers with a few keystrokes. For this job, M pulled them into MI6 and gave them everything they needed. This was a high-stakes mission, and as gifted as they were, she wanted them on-site in case anything came up. John was along in medical capacity, his job was to keep track of Bond’s vitals and make sure he didn’t get himself killed. Which...he almost did. On at least two separate occasions.

 

By the time he went off-radar after a spectacular car-crash that wrecked a gorgeous Aston Martin DB5 that Bond had won off of another man while in the Bahamas, Scotty and Q were tearing their hair out. Outwardly, they were calm, but M and Mycroft, who were familiar with them in similar yet different ways, knew they were not as calm as they appeared.

“Where is Bond?” M asked over their shoulders. Behind her, Mycroft and John conversed in soft tones. Scotty entered a few keystrokes and waited. The tracker implanted in Bond’s arm had been removed by force, but not before Scotty got a lead on his location and managed to find a couple of poor-quality cameras. And, a second tracker implanted elsewhere on Bond that his captors had _not_ discovered was still transmitting.

“They’re...somewhere. I can’t tell where they are from the footage, ma’am, I can barely make out Bond. That’s him, though.” Scotty took a sharp breath. Bond was in serious, _serious_ trouble.

 

In the end, she got a good lead, they dispatched an extraction team, and it was only when they heard back from John, who had gone along with the extraction team to oversee Bond’s recovery, that Scotty remembered how to breathe again.

“Did they pull the girl?”

“Yes, both Bond and Lynd were safely recovered.” M reassured them, “Well done, you two.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Scotty shoved her headset back to hang around her neck and covered her face with both hands. “Jesus.”

“Go home. We’ll let you know when we need you again.” M put a hand on Scotty’s shoulder, “I’m almost tempted to bring you on formally.”

“Ma’am?” Scotty looked at Q, and they both looked at the Director.

“You show an alarming level of skill unexpected for someone so young, you would do well in Research & Development.” M turned to Mycroft, who stood by quietly. “What do you think, 003? Would they be an asset to the agency?”

“That is your decision, ma’am. I can vouch for their skill and experience in their fields. And for Scotty’s legacy in the agency, if that should be counted for anything.”

“I imagine it would count for _something_.” M patted Scotty on the shoulder, “At a later date, perhaps. They’ve done enough for now.”

“Ma’am.” Mycroft gave Scotty a look she knew was her signal to withdraw. They had already been dismissed, it was up to them to leave.

“Scotty.”

“Yes?”

“Well done.” M was almost beaming.

“Thank you, ma’am.” She looked at Mycroft, who just nodded. They rarely showed physical affection in public, but it was no secret around MI6 that she was Mycroft’s daughter. The important people knew, and those who had a problem with it generally kept their mouths shut. Collecting what little she had brought with her to Vauxhall Cross, Scotty paid her respects to M and Mycroft and left with Q. As they passed by her father, he passed her something, a small envelope. She knew better than to open it in the control room, so she waited until they were out to see what, exactly, he’d handed her. It was a standard 3½ x 6½” coin envelope, used to hold small valuables, coins, and keys. Scotty gave it a shake as she followed Q out of Vauxhall Cross.

 

At this rate, all she wanted was four days to recover before she even had to think about hacking a camera again. And if that was taken at the Queensdale house or Q’s Prince Regent Court flat, she didn’t particularly _care_. Hell, she’d pad-crash John’s place on Baker Street if she thought she’d get any sleep there. But when he wasn’t babysitting James Bond, he was babysitting her uncle, so that was kind of out of the question. If she had to guess, Sherlock was on house-arrest at the Queensdale house on doctor’s orders until John could get back from Italy. So…sleep? As soon as she figured out what Mycroft had given her. Or, rather, given _them_. Q’s name was on the envelope.

“What’s that?” He looked at the envelope as they made their way to where he had parked the Mitsubishi.

“Keys, I’m going to assume. To what remains to be seen.” She opened the envelope and shook out its contents. It was keys, alright. To what? A note written on a slip of paper informed them of the location the keys belonged to.

 

Apparently, while they had been busy keeping James Bond out of trouble, which he had neatly gotten _into_ regardless, Mycroft had been busy doing something else. According to the note, he and other interested parties had been monitoring Scotty and Q’s activities over the last few months and had decided that they deserved a place of their own with more room than either of them had between their respective residences. That meant that the two of _them_ , with the blessing of their superiors and certain family, were now the proud (and apparently _sole_ ) owners of a house in London. Over the few days they had been on station at MI6, everything they owned, spread between two or three locations, had been collected, consolidated, and moved to the new house. Scotty was not actually that surprised. She gave Q one of the house-keys and they decided to go see where they were living now.

 

The address written on the note took them to a house on Queens Grove, not even a mile from the Prince Regent Court flat. But this was a _house_ , with all the room they could have wanted or needed and plenty to expand. Scotty made herself a promise to explore the house after she could think straight, for the moment, she was content to kick off her shoes, toss her clothes in the hamper, and take a shower. Whether or not Q joined her was his prerogative, she didn’t really mind either way. She let the water run hot and heard the door creak open from the bedroom as she stepped under the showerhead. The master en-suite had a shower-over combo and she appreciated that. There was a shuffle behind her and she smiled as a hand landed on her shoulder. Scotty was quick about her shower, just because she was so tired and needed time to process what they’d just done. Mycroft had moved the bed from the Prince Regent Court flat, and she was very grateful for that. Drying off with a towel, she dragged a tee-shirt over her head and made it as far as the bed. Q was, of course, quick to join her. Scotty knew they would be awake again in twelve hours, at which time they would very likely eat something and touch base with MI6.

 

**:-:**

 

It was three days before they heard any news of Bond, and the news they got was…alarming.

“Resigned?” Scotty looked from the printed letter of resignation to M, who sat behind her desk at Vauxhall Cross. “He _resigned_?”

“We were as shocked as you, R.”

“You’re not actually going to process this, are you, ma’am?”

“No. I’m afraid this is not the last we’ve seen or heard of 007. I want you and Q to keep a close eye on his movements.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“And, once we’ve successfully retrieved him from whatever trouble he’s going to get himself into, I would like to speak to you and Q in private.”

“About the positions you offered us three days ago?”

“Precisely.”

“Of course, ma’am.” Scotty gave the letter back to M and looked at Q, who stood next to her, eyes wide. Why on earth had Bond just…resigned like that? The letter said it was personal, but…something didn’t make sense. Had he decided, for whatever reason, that there was more to life than service? He wouldn’t be the first, not by a long shot, but he would definitely be the shortest-lived agent who had ever reach double-oh status. Most of them lasted at least a couple of months, he’d barely gotten a full month behind him.

“It must have been Lynd.” Q shook his head. “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to, Q. You two go home and start looking for Bond. We’ll be in touch.”

“Absolutely, M. Absolutely.” Scotty nodded and they left her office. At the door, Scotty thought of something and turned again. “Oh, M?”

“Yes, R?”

“We tagged the winnings from the poker tournament?”

“As soon as they were collected and deposited. Why?”

“Okay. Thank you, ma’am.”

“R.”

“I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something, ma’am.” Scotty just pulled the door closed, knowing M hated it when you kind of walked away from her like that, but she had a theory to test and she didn’t have a lot of time.

“What are you thinking?” Q whispered as they left MI6 and hailed a taxi to get them home.

“I think our idiot agent may have gotten into something. I’ll need to track that money. If it moves, for any reason, I need to know. And M needs to know.”

“You don’t think…”

“We need to do our homework on Ms Lynd. There’s something she hasn’t told us, something she didn’t want anyone to know. We’ll find her secret.”

“After you.” Q held the door of a stopped taxi for her and ordered the driver back to the Queens Grove house. As soon as they got home, Scotty and Q started their dirty work. Cameras, dossiers, bank accounts, contacts, everything was collected, disseminated, and archived.

 

Within a week, they had everything they needed. So when the winnings suddenly went missing, withdrawn in cash from a bank in Venice two weeks later, Scotty and Q rushed their findings to M and got on the com-link with Bond. He knew something was up, but not the specifics. If he was surprised to hear from them, he gave no sign.

“Bond, listen to us. You have to find Vesper, wherever she is in the city. Find her. Recover the money if you can. But be careful, don’t be stupid about this.” Scotty leaned against her work-station, rubbing her forehead and the bridge of her nose. She had to get her glasses adjusted again.

“Give me those.” Q held out one hand for her glasses even as they watched the GPS dot that was Bond on location in Venice. She handed them over and reached for the cup of tea that sat cooling on the work-top between them.

“Oi.”

“Tea for glasses. Hush.” She rolled her eyes and focused on the screen displaying all of the data they had. “Bond, get moving.”

_“I’m moving now. I’ll be in touch.”_

“We have you on tracking, and we’ve patched the cameras in your area. Good luck.” She let him go, keeping track while Bond left the boat he and Vesper Lynd had taken on an impromptu vacation. When Q returned her glasses, she handed over the mug of tea.

“Try that.”

“Ta.” She put her glasses back on and looked over at her partner. “Thanks for that.”

“Better?”

“Much.”

“What do we have on Bond and Ms Lynd, R?” M came in without warning, she did that often, and startled most of the people in the bullpen. She didn’t startle Scotty or Q, however.

“Here’s what we have so far, ma’am.” Scotty used a remote to pull up different windows on different screens, spreading the information across four screens in all. “As you can see, 007 and Ms Lynd have separated. He’s gone in pursuit. We’re tracking him now.”

“What is she doing with that money?”

“She’s meeting a contact for a hand-off. We suspect it to be this Mr White we’ve been hearing about since Montenegro.”

“Good work.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Let’s try to avoid another international incident, shall we?”

“We’ll do our best, ma’am.” Scotty folded her arms across her chest.

 

The next several hours went by in a flash, and Scotty found herself reaching for Q when things went south _very_ quickly.

“Where is he?”

“He’s still in that building, ma’am.” Which was rapidly sinking. Buoy bags had been ruptured. Suddenly, just when she had convinced herself Bond had drowned in the sunken building, they had movement on the roof. It was Bond. Zeroing in on his location, they were witness to a heartbreaking scene. He was alive, but…Vesper Lynd was not.

“Oh my god.” Scotty closed her hand around Q’s wrist, an instinctive grab. A quick, subtle twist allowed him to take her hand in his and link their fingers together. No one noticed or said anything if they did.

 

**:-:**

 

A few hours later, they were present in M’s office as Bond was debriefed and brought up to speed on what they knew about the situation. Before hanging up with him, M had one order for Bond: “Come home, James.”

_“Not yet, M. Just give me a few more days.”_

“Three days, Bond. That’s all. Then I’m bringing you in.”

_“Yes’m.”_ Bond hung up then and Scotty let out a slow breath.

“Do you want Q and I to keep him under surveillance, ma’am?”

“You know the drill. Thank you, R.”

“Ma’am.” Ever since they had picked up the mission that had started in Antananarivo, Scotty had been answering to the designation R. She suspected the letter-designation had been picked from her second middle name Raileigh, and had adapted quickly. Her future employment with the SIS was looking more and more likely.

 

It was another four days before they were able to take a break between jobs, and Scotty slept for a week before returning to MI6. M had officially put Scotty and Q on the agency’s rosters as Quartermasters, they were minders for the time being. Being as young as they were, they didn’t make very many friends but they weren’t in the business to befriend their coworkers, they had work to do. Besides, befriending people wasn’t exactly a strong suit of any of the Holmeses, Scotty and Q were no different.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotty is R, she'll be Q's second-in-command when the time comes.


	11. Quantum of Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty has settled into her role at MI6 and appreciates the quiet moments when she can get them. Rare as they are managing a couple of double-ohs the likes of James Bond and his partner-in-crime Alec Trevelyan, but she does her best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This involves elements of "Quantum of Solace", as should be evidenced by the title. I figure, with the timeline linking "Casino Royale" and "Quantum of Solace", it's been a while since the end of Casino Royale and the start of the misadventures depicted in Quantum, I'd assume at LEAST a year for continuity's sake. That's given Scotty enough time to adjust to her role at MI6 and into life in London. 
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: Things heat up a bit between Scotty and Q in this chapter, and I drew on my own experiences with having sexual intercourse for the first time with someone who cared about me. My history is assault, Scotty's is rape, but her experience was mine regarding her "first time". This was a little personal to put out, so be gentle.

* * *

When she wasn’t playing with cameras or coding, Scotty tracked her own father’s activities in the field. There was some grumbling about that, and the first time she lost him, it was worse than any of the times she’d lost track of John. He came home in the end, alive but battered. One of the senior Quartermasters challenged M’s placement of Scotty in that division, said someone else should be watching 003, someone less…involved, but M wasn’t stupid. Scotty could work magic with cameras and trackers that no one else seemed capable of and she had recovered a few other lost agents with no thanks from anyone just because she knew what to look for and how to look for it. M put her father on injured-reserve, gave him desk-work, and set Scotty loose for a while. She messed around with her regular contacts and uncovered a big problem.

 

One night, Scotty got a late-night Skype-call from a number she hadn’t seen in a long time, she knew it was serious. She was at her station in MI6 when it came through, and she looked around to see if anyone else in the bullpen was paying attention. Setting up a few safeguards, she clicked into the call and adjusted her headset.

“Hey, long time no see, Agent Ross.”

_“Scotty. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”_

“Nah. We don’t get a whole lot of sleep around here.” She stretched, rolling her neck, “So, what can I do you for? It’s been a while.”

_“Listen, I can’t talk long, but I had to let you know and give you guys a heads up.”_

“About what?”

_“I need you to do me a favor and do some research on a couple of people.”_

“Fire away.” She pulled up the proper browser windows and waited. He gave her a short list of names and she frowned, recognizing one of them.

“Hang on, how do you know Felix Leiter?”

_“He’s my superior.”_

“Oh my god.” She let out a slow breath, “Uh, hang on a second.” She got busy on her search-strings and started sending Ross everything she had.

_“You wouldn’t happen to have people in the field right now who might be on this job, would you?”_

“I don’t…uh, I think we might have a couple, but don’t quote me on that. One of ours went a bit off the rails, I think he’s in Austria right now.”

_“Bond?”_

“Don’t tell me you’ve met him?”

_“Once. Charming, isn’t  he?”_

“That’s one word for James Bond.” She took off her glasses to rub her eyes. “Whatever this is, Indigo, it’s big. Bigger than us. We might have a problem.”

“We do have a big problem.” M’s voice cracked through the quiet bullpen, Scotty was not the only person who flinched. “R, bring up the main screens, please. My regards to Agent Ross, and my apologies.”

“Right away, ma’am!” She turned back to her station, “Indigo, can I call you back?”

“ _Yeah, let me know what you find out?”_

“Absolutely. Talk to you later.” She hung up with Ross and quickly pulled up the main screens. A series of headshots flashed up in quick succession and were transmitted to everyone’s stations. Scotty started running facial-rec on the photographs.

“Where did we get this from, ma’am?”

“Bond, in Austria. He crashed a private meeting.”

“Of course he did, why am I not surprised.” She huffed, “Jesus Christ, one day. Just one, is that so much to ask?”

“I would love to know what you’re doing at your station when you should be at home, R.”

“Can’t sleep.”

“R.”

“Ma’am.”

“Finish the facial-rec of Bond’s marks and go home. Do not come back until I call you in, do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She nodded and turned to her computer again. Six hours later, she had every single person in the photographs identified and had sent that information along to M. Patching everything into her network at home, she left MI6 and returned to Queens Grove. Q was there as she got through the door, taking her bag and her coat and sending her upstairs.

“Did M finally kick you out?”

“Not before she had me run facial-rec on a bunch of people. Ever hear of Quantum?”

“Name sounds familiar. Why?”

“Guess who’s party Bond crashed in Austria?”

“Oh, you’re kidding me.” Q followed her up the stairs, “I am so sorry. What else?”

“Heard from Indigo. His bosses are up to something and he was hoping I might be able to get some headway.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Something’s going on, and it’s not good.”

“Well, get some sleep. Whatever this is, I doubt it’s going away anytime soon.”

“Probably not. Wake me up if we get any updates?”

“Absolutely.” He pushed her into the bedroom and helped her out of her clothes, “You’re shaking.”

“Exhaustion. Can’t sleep, though.”

“Come on, you silly thing.” Q smirked and bundled her into bed. Taking her phone, he kissed her on the cheek, she turned her head for a proper kiss, and left again, leaving the door propped open just a bit. “Sleep well, Scotty. I’ll head things up from here, you take a break.”

“’kay. Thanks, Q.” She rolled over and was out before she counted to thirty. Coming home had been a good idea, she needed the sleep, and Q could take over for a while. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if Q was the one who figured everything out and managed to get Bond out of whatever he was getting into this time.

 

 **:-:**  

 

It took three weeks to shut down Bond’s latest mission, but Scotty and Q were able to bring him home. He was in a little bit of trouble for “respectfully disobeying orders”, but after a few weeks’ leave, it was back to work for him. Following the Quantum scandal, Felix Leiter earned his late superior’s position at the CIA after he got killed during one of many stand-offs and that in turn boosted Everett Ross higher on the ladder. He was so excited he could barely talk and Scotty finally told him to call his brother. John wouldn’t speak to her for three days because of it, but it was worth it in the end. John’s exact words when he called Scotty back about _that_ phone call were “I don’t have time to be listening to my brother scream for an hour! Why did you do that?”

“Because you’re his brother, I’m a friend. An acquaintance, maybe. Besides, I couldn’t get him to talk.”

_“Neither could I!”_

“Oh, calm down, John. You’ll get yours, I promise.” She rolled her eyes, “Listen, I’ve gotta go. I haven’t slept in four days, so I’ll catch you later.”

_“Is that why you sound so hoarse?”_

“Yep.”

_“Damn it, Scotty! Why are all of you Holmeses such stubborn idiots? Hot tea with lemon and honey, a bit of brandy if you’ve got it. If you need a sleep-aid, I’ll give you one.”_

“Thanks, John. Sorry not sorry about your brother.” She trundled down to the kitchen to look for tea, pocketing her phone along the way. Q found her making the prescribed tea and raised an eyebrow.

“Want some?”

“Please? How did John take it?”

“About as well as I expected.”

“So, not very well?”

“Nope.”

“You sound terrible, should you see a doctor?”

“Probably.” She coughed and picked up her tea when it was done, stirring in the honey, lemon, and a bit of whiskey she found stashed on a high shelf. “But I don’t feel sick. Just tired.” She sat on the work-top as she sipped at her tea, watching Q. Two cups of tea made all the difference in the world, she felt less like she’d scraped the lining of her throat with a piece of sandpaper. She popped a cough-drop for good measure before she went back upstairs. Q, of course, followed. And behind _him_ came Jadis, the stray Snowshoe Calico that had kind of adopted Q over the course of several months before Scotty became part of the equation. Scotty had named the cat shortly after she started living with Q and whenever she was home, wherever she was, Jadis was nearby. Sitting on her shoulders or even, annoyingly, at her work-station by the keyboard, sometimes in her lap if they weren’t doing anything particular. Scotty snickered as Jadis bolted past them heading for the master suite.

“Hey, Your Majesty! Don’t steal my pillow!” She called as Jadis’ tail disappeared through the door.

“You know she’s going to.” Q chuckled as they followed Jadis. Sure enough, they found Jadis half-buried in the pillows. Scotty rolled her eyes and scooped the cat out of the bedding.

“No, no, no. This is my pillow. You have your pillow, I have my pillow. Off.” She dumped Jadis on the floor, taking a bit of pleasure at the disgruntled sound Jadis made. While Q shooed Jadis out of the room, Scotty ducked into the bathroom. When she came out again, she bumped into Q, who was more or less right in her way.

“Can I _help_ you, Mr Holmes?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She snorted.

“May I kiss you, Scotty?”

“Hmm?”

“May. I. Kiss. You?”

“Oh.” He didn’t always ask, but when he did, it was usually important. “Of course.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. You ask permission.”

“Of course I do, it’s very important.” He just smiled in that funny way all of them smiled, leaned in a bit, and kissed her. He was always careful to keep his hand away from the back of her neck, but she was getting better about being touched there. Scotty had only been in London for maybe three or four months, but she had come an awfully long way from the person she’d been when she left Seattle. John was a willing teacher, but she knew better than to hope for something more with him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t teach her, but it was unlikely they would ever get beyond kissing. And really, he was more like a big brother figure anyway.

“You know, you’re getting good at that.” She sighed when he pulled back a bit.

“Again?”

“Please?”

“Rough day?”

“I had to track down 006 and pull his sorry arse out of Marrakech.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Mycroft laughed at me when I complained about the mess, he said it’s just the way 006 is.”

“Destructive?”

“Apparently.” She leaned against Q, “He’ll be a menace, won’t he?”

“Him and Bond are both a bit not good, aren’t they?”

“John thinks it’s hilarious.”

“Of course he does, because it’s not him yet.” Q rolled his eyes and steered her towards the bed. “No more work.”

“No more work. Can’t stop thinking, though.”

“Can you try?”

“Maybe?” She shrugged and let Q pull the jumper over her head. She took care of the button-down she’d worn under it, and caught him shedding layers of clothes. Where was this going? Did she care enough to stop him? Probably not. If she had to, she would, but…she’d wait and see where he took this. By the time they landed on the bed, they were both naked from the waist up and Scotty braced her hands against Q’s shoulders, not to hold him back but just to support him while he was on top.

“Is this okay?”

“Yeah. This is okay.” She looked up at him, admiring the way he looked from this angle. He just smiled and leaned down to kiss her, careful not to crowd. This was as far as they had ever gotten, which was really just fine by them. Scotty wasn’t sure if Q had ever actually _had_ sex with someone, and her experience wasn’t much to speak well of. But, they were both well of the age of consent and despite being blood-relations, there were no laws against this. If they had been closer than cousins, say siblings, then it might be a problem, but Scotty knew they weren’t breaking any laws and anyone who had a problem with it had no grounds for objection if they weren’t an immediate relation to the family. Besides, not that many people actually knew she and Q were cousins.

“Scotty?” Q looked up at her from listening to her heartbeat, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She reached down and ruffled his hair, “I’ll say if I’m not.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, I’ve…never done this before.”

“Neither have I, Q.” She pulled him up for a kiss, “Maybe we can learn together.”

“Okay. Stop me if you have to.”

“I will, I promise.” She wouldn’t say she wasn’t nervous, but she wasn’t afraid. So Q was a virgin. Technically, Scotty wasn’t, but she had never had safe, consensual sex. She wrapped her arms around Q at about mid-back, resting her hands on his shoulder-blades. He dropped his head to hers and they kissed a bit. They experimented a bit and decided that foreplay, while important, was better done with no clothes on. So, off came their underwear. Scotty was not body-shy around her cousin, she never really had been, but this was new for them.

 

Further experimentation produced positive results that would very likely be repeatable, but when Q started to get nervous, his inexperience showing, Scotty took control. She rolled him onto his back and reached for the condom-wrapper sitting on the bedside table.

“Can I take over?”     

“Yeah. Please.”

“Okay. I know the mechanics, how it’s supposed to work. Trust me. I’ll stop if I have to, for your sake or mine.” She tore the wrapper open very carefully, “These are always a must, until we’re established and comfortable with our status.” They had both been tested as part of their employment with MI6, and had both, blessedly, come back clean. Scotty had been an unknown due to her history, but all testing had come back negative for any and all recognised STDs and STIs both time she had been tested. Q just nodded and she carefully rolled the condom on.

“Scotty?”

“Stop?”

“No, just…what if we do it wrong?”

“It’s a learning process. And there’s two of us in it, I don’t know any more about how it actually works than you do.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, “You can stop me any time.”

“I don’t…want you to. It feels different. Nice different.”

“You’ve played with yourself, obviously, so you know what feels good for you?”

“Yeah. This is…nice. Kind of scary.”

“It’s supposed to be scary.” She rubbed his hip, watching his expression smooth out as he relaxed. He gained full hardness after some coaxing and play-around, and Scotty took a moment to prepare herself.

“Lube is your friend. It’s very hard to have too much.” She capped and set the container aside and positioned herself, straddling his hips. “This…is going to feel very weird.”

“Okay.” Q blinked, looking so young it wasn’t fair. Scotty leaned forward on her hands and knees, lowering herself onto him even as she kissed him. It was a familiar but alien sensation and she groaned. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but there was some discomfort. That was to be expected. Doctor Morgan had warned her at her last visit that whenever she finally engaged in sexual activity, it would be potentially very painful, extreme discomfort would be a consideration. After a while, she had to stop and readjust. Her body was remembering the wrong things about this and kept tightening. But she wasn’t going to let memory win this one.

“Scotty…stop.” Q squeezed her bicep, “Pull off.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I just had an idea.” He touched the side of her face, “Can you trust me?”

“Yeah. Of course I trust you.” She heaved a sigh of something. Q smiled and leaned up to kiss her, pushing against her a bit. He got her over onto her back and knelt between her legs. She tensed up a bit, despite having never been taken from the front.

“Try not to tense up, it’s going to hurt much more.”

“Sorry. I was never taken from the front, I promise.”

“I know.” He rubbed the line of her hip, “I think when you’re on top, the angle’s a little awkward. Some girls can do it, some can’t. And it reminds you of past encounters.”

“We had to try to figure out we couldn’t.” She squinted, “What did you have in mind?”

“Can you spread your legs a bit more and slide down?”

“I can…try.” She wondered what he had planned, and shuffled until she was in what seemed to be a much better position. Q reached past her and grabbed one of the pillows.

“Lift your hips a minute, love.” He slid the pillow under her back and hips and that changed her angle. Q adjusted his own position and she reached for his hand as he lined up with his free hand. She used _her_ free hand to balance him and reminded herself to breathe when he started to push. What had hurt, what had been uncomfortable when she had been on top, didn’t hurt really at all now. She kept reminding herself to relax, to breathe, to not tense up. Q took it easy, adjusting and withdrawing several times when she tapped him on the hip and said stop. Finally, they found what worked and Scotty gasped when he suddenly dropped on top of her, flush and joined from hips to shoulders in every way possible.

“Holy shit.”

“Don’t move.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, “Please, don’t move yet.”

“Yeah, no. No problem. You okay?”

“I’m okay.” She let out a slow breath, “Oh my god, that’s…god that feels so weird.”

“But…bad?”

“No! Not bad, it’s okay! I’m just…not used to this.” She leaned her head back and looked up at him, “Q, you’re amazing.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t want to screw up.”

“You haven’t. You’re fine. Um.” She squinted, “Pull back, not out just back.”

“Okay. Like this?” He adjusted his angle and pulled back a little bit. Scotty inhaled sharply. It felt so alien, but it felt… _good_.

“Yeah.” She nodded and linked her hands against his back. Some push-and-pull experimenting led to interesting discoveries. At one point, he found Scotty’s G-spot and it was the only time in recent history that she was actually glad they had no immediate neighbours who might hear.

“W-what was _that_?” Q asked, shaking as he held himself up.

“Think that was what they call the G-spot. It’s the female body’s answer to the prostate. Works damn near the…ooh, damn near the same way. Do that again.”

“Do…what? Do this?” He tried whatever had worked just now and she whined, tugging on her linked hands, kicking out with one foot to hook around his knee.

“That works?”

“Oh yeah, that works!” She looked up at him, “Pull out all the way.”

“Stop?”

“Not yet. Just…pull out all the way.”

“Okay.” He pulled back until the only contact they had was the slick, condom-wrapped head of his penis resting against Scotty’s labial folds and clit. When he dropped forward onto his elbows, that changed the angle and he brushed against her clit, which did something very interesting to Scotty. It didn’t hurt at all, well, not in a way that had her wanting to stop, but she yelped.

“Did I hurt you?”        

“No! Any contact or stimulation is going to feel a little weird, but it’s all good.” She smiled.

“Weird. Good word for it. Holy shit, Scotty.” Q pressed his forehead to her collar-bone and shifted his hips again, sliding in and straight home. Scotty wasn’t sure if the groan was just one of them or both of them together, but there was no pain now. She hooked both feet around his knees, tugging, and slid under a bit more. Pillows got tossed aside and the blankets had been kicked out of the way fairly early, it was just the two of them making an honest effort to recondition Scotty to healthy, consensual sexual behaviour.

 

**:-:**

 

Once they found what worked, the angle and such, Q found a rhythm and Scotty held on. He always asked if she was okay; she was fine, keep going. Finally, what must have been some time after they started in earnest, Scotty felt something in her core loosen and planted her feet against the mattress, pushing up against Q, curling in on herself as her climax hit her. She wasn’t sure if she actually made any noise, her hearing had kind of gone fuzzy. It was disorienting and strange, and she felt very sensitive as Q kept going. A few pulls later, he stiffened and jerked. He was what the community called a “quiet comer”, he didn’t really make much fuss. He grunted, whined, and collapsed after filling the condom. Scotty just held onto him until he could pull out, until they had both relaxed enough he could pull out without hurting either of them. But once he was able to pull out, Scotty took the condom, tied and contained it, and went into the bathroom to dispose of it and get a damp cloth for clean up. She cleaned up on herself first, not that much was needed, and went to look after Q, who was sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed trying to get his head back on right.

“You alright, Q?”

“Holy shit.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She kissed him on the cheek and tossed the cloth towards the hamper before reaching for the blankets and pillows. “Did you switch off, then?”

“Yep.”

“I did too, kind of.” She rearranged everything and pulled the covers up properly. “I feel kind of…fuzzy.”

“Ugh.”

“Come back when you’re ready, love. I’m not going anywhere.” She kissed him on the cheek, then on the lips and curled up next to him to wait for his system to reboot.

 

She ended up on her stomach, half-asleep by the time he was coherent. He rubbed her shoulders, rolling over to lean against her.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Welcome back to the world of the living.”

“Jesus Christ, what was that?”

“That was successful consensual sexual intercourse.”

“Are you sore at all?” He leaned his head next to hers, his breathing steady and deep, “I hurt in some very…interesting places.”

“I don’t hurt right now, but I will definitely feel this tomorrow. But it’s fine. I’m okay.”

“Okay, are you sure?”

“Absolutely. If that’s what sex is supposed to be like, no wonder people enjoy it so much.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I don’t think you did. Not on purpose.” She smiled and turned her head, “Would you do that again, Q?”

“Of course! But…only with you, I think.”

“That’s okay with me. Single-partner relationships are a very nice thing. We’ll just have to make sure this doesn’t interfere with work.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, I know.” She chuckled, “Let’s sleep it off. We have stuff to do tomorrow.”

“Do we have to?”

“Well, no, but what else did you have in mind?”

“See if Bond and 006 are up to anything, see what 003 is up to. If they’re grounded, we’re not going in. I don’t think M would mind, do you?”

“If we call in the morning? Probably not.” Scotty yawned, “We’d have to call her anyway to get status on the other three. I know Trevelyan’s due for debrief and medical, I think Bond’s already state-side, and I have no idea where Mycroft is or what he’s doing. I think he’s home.”

“We’ll find out in the morning.” Q rolled over and kissed her, “Thanks, Scotty.”

“I think I should thank you.”

“I didn’t…mind. It was nice. I didn’t think I’d like it so much, I was worried about hurting you.”

“You didn’t hurt me. Sleep it off, sweetie.” She touched noses with him and got comfortable. It wasn’t long before she dozed off, Q was already snoring against her shoulder.

* * *

 


	12. Quantum of Solace: Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With another bizarre mission out of the way, Scotty gets in some domestic case-work with Sherlock. What should have been a standard case takes an unusual, unnerving turn and assistance is required to get out of trouble. That's what Mycroft is good for.

* * *

 

Scotty didn’t usually sleep on her stomach, it wasn’t all that comfortable, but when she woke up several hours later in damn near the same position she’d fallen asleep in, she wasn’t that surprised. She groaned and tried to roll, but Q had her pretty squarely pinned. Huffing, she squirmed and wriggled and finally got out from under her snoring partner. Shuffling off to the loo, she took care of business and returned to bed after taking couple of paracetamol for the expected aches. Q was aware of her return and pressed close in his sleep. She rolled her eyes and did some adjusting to get comfortable again. It was quiet in the house, she could hear Jadis moving around hunting spiders and mice.

 

She had no idea what time it was, or how long it had been since she’d made her initial foray from bed, when there was a sudden commotion downstairs. In a heartbeat, from dead sleep to wide awake, Scotty and Q were out of bed and pulling on whatever clothes they could find. In the time it took their intruder to announce themselves, they were armed and standing at the top of the stairs. Scotty had a Remington Model 12 pump-action shotgun, Q had Scotty’s Beretta. Scotty had always been taught that the best deterrent a thief could encounter, no matter how determined, was the sound of a racking shotgun. She racked the Remington and stood where the intruder could see her. He, predictably, froze at the sound. Scotty had spent hours with the Remington and knew how to handle it.

“You’ve got two minutes to name yourself and your business in this house, mister, before the cops get here.” She growled as she tucked the stock against her shoulder and sighted her unwanted visitor down the scope, “Gutsy of you to break into a house belonging to a couple of agents, ain’t it?” Behind her, Q snorted. They weren’t agents, but they sure as hell knew a couple. Their intruder froze and turned towards them, having been caught with his back to them, hands raised in surrender.

“S-Scotty?”

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.” Scotty recognized the man standing at the bottom of the stairs and lowered the Remington, “Are you kidding me? Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

“I…was in the area. Knew you lived around here.” Her uncle lowered his hands a bit, “Thought you might be in. Hoped you might be.” Scotty looked at Q, who raised an eyebrow. She looked at her uncle and narrowed her eyes.

“That wasn’t my question and you know it. Why are you here? Why did you break into our house?”

“I need help.”

“With?”

“A case. I’d ask John, but’s he’s gone again. Training, I think?”

“So, instead of knocking, you broke into our house just to ask for help?” She rolled her eyes, “You know you can call us, right?”

“I did. I called, three times, got no answer, came to ask in person. Got no response when I rang the bell or knocked, so I came in.” He shuffled nervously, looking very sorry for the trouble and quite young. He wasn’t _that_ much older than them, of course. Scotty and Q looked at each other and checked their phones. Sure enough, there was a call-log of three missed calls from Sherlock. And he _never_ called, he texted. There was a long string of texts, as well. This was serious, then, important.

“How can _we_ help, Sherlock?”

“I have a case in Brookwood, hardly above a 5, but I could always use an assistant.”

“Are you…”

“Why don’t one of you come with me? You might be rather useful.”

“Uh. Private case this time?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really want a teenager following you around? Might not be good for your image.”

“I need an assistant more, and you show promise. Your history speaks well for you. Come with me, it could be…interesting.”

“Just so you know, I can’t turn down a dare. Never have been able to.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Drove Dad bonkers, but yeah. Mycroft’s not all that fond of it either.” She looked Q, who shrugged. If she went with Sherlock, he would track them from either here or from MI6. He gave her what he had and let her make her choice. She ultimately decided to go with Sherlock, having nothing better to do with her time. Their first stop before leaving London for Brookwood was MI6, where they spoke to Doctor Morgan, who gave them implantable bio-trackers the likes of which all of the field-agents had implanted.

 

**:-:**

 

After talking his niece Scotty into joining him on a private case that held some promise, unwilling to go into the leg-work alone, Sherlock Holmes was just glad he had someone else to help out on cases when John Watson was unavailable. After a brief visit to Vauxhall Cross, they took the train from London to Brookwood, and a taxi from the station to the client’s house. The minute they saw the place, Sherlock looked at Scotty and just _knew_. This was a bad house to be in, and the less time they spent here, the better. The wife of the couple answered the door to them, gave them a long, judgmental look, and reluctantly let them in after Sherlock introduced himself and Scotty.

“I wasn’t expecting two of you, or so young, Mr Holmes.”

“This is my assistant, Mariam. What can we do for you then, Mrs Wenmeiler?” He wasn’t going to be pleasant with someone who looked down on them for their age, not in a house like this. This was old money gone to complete waste, and it was a bit of a shame.

“I gave you all of the information you needed to know in our email exchanges, Mr Holmes, I should hope you took the time to _read_ them?” The woman sneered, as if daring him to admit he hadn’t actually read every one of her emails. He had. Many times. Instead of responding to that jab, he handed her a file. She took it and flicked through the papers inside, eyes flying across the pages. Sherlock studied his client while she was otherwise occupied, making a list of deductions in his head that, if he was _smart_ , would never get spoken.

 

Victoria Wenmeiler might have been pretty at one time in her life, maybe even beautiful, but age had not been very kind to her. She was in her late-fifties, and it showed in her attempts to hide her true age. Her hair was bleach-bottle blonde, badly damaged and brittle, tortured into a vogue, stylish updo that just didn’t…look right on her, her skin was an awful burnt-orange from too much time on sunning beds and artificial bronzers, and it was obvious she had had extensive facial work done, as well as other…enhancements. It was not a good thing. Sherlock didn’t know _where_ to look and picked a spot just over her left shoulder, which still let him focus on the client without staring her head-on. Beside him, Scotty was having the same problem, and stared at the flooring between her feet with unusual intensity, just so she wouldn’t stare at Wenmeiler.

 

A picture on a side-table, in a gaudy frame, caught his eye and Sherlock turned to get a closer look. The woman in the picture was a great deal younger, and quite beautiful. Family, obviously, going by her face. He went over to the side-table and leaned down, hands behind his back, studying the photograph.

“Who is the woman in this picture?” He looked over at the client.

“Hmm?” Wenmeiler turned her head, “Oh. That’s _me_ , when I was much younger!”

“No kidding.” He muttered. What on earth had _happened_ to her? What had happened to the smiling, beautiful girl in this picture?

“I was a model once! And a dancer!” Well, that was obviously the right thing to say to get her to lighten up, “Ah, those were the days, Mr Holmes!” And on closer examination of the sitting-room, there were pictures of Wenmeiler all over the place. Not very many of her with her husband, or any very current photographs.

“Why did you stop dancing, Mrs Wenmeiler? If you don’t mind me asking?” Scotty piped up carefully, head tilted to one side.

“Ah, yes. No, it’s a shame, but my husband is an incredibly _jealous_ bastard and he didn’t think it proper that I was performing for “other people”. So, I stopped dancing.”

“Your husband isn’t British, then?”

“Oh, no! Russian! Rather large family on his side of the affair, cousins for decades and more grandparents than a person should reasonably have. I don’t think they much care for me.” Wenmeiler shrugged, disdainful of her in-laws.

“I wonder why?” Scotty whispered, just loud enough for Sherlock to hear, but not Wenmeiler. Apparently, once you asked the right question, the woman wouldn’t shut up and spilled every sordid detail to Sherlock and Scotty. Every. Single. One. Including bedroom activities. Sherlock watched Scotty get white in the face as certain activities were described and he knew this was about to set off triggers. But Scotty, strong girl, held herself together.

“And then the fat bastard starts bringing home this long train of girls! All young, all pretty, all…”

“Russian?”

“Most of them!”

“So…tell us again what, exactly, you were hoping for when you reached out to the Agency, Mrs Wenmeiler?” Sherlock steepled his fingertips against his lips and dared her to suggest an undercover gig.

“Well, my husband has a taste for boys, which I find deplorably _disgusting_. I was hoping you might…”

“No, Mrs Wenmeiler. I don’t _do_ undercover work of that kind.” He cut her off at the pass, “I gave you the information you asked for, I promised nothing else in our agreement.”

“Well, what about your assistant? She’s young, and very pretty.”

“She’s American.” Scotty’s acquired American accent had faded quite a bit in her time home in London, but it was still there.

“Oh, he’s not going to notice!”

“He bloody well would!” Scotty snapped, “No thanks!”

“Mariam.” Sherlock went over to her, taking her hand. She was shaking, this was not a good thing. He’d been afraid of this, but he didn’t regret bringing her with him, she had been helpful. He looked at Wenmeiler, eyes narrow.

“Mrs Wenmeiler, we have performed our services as per our contract. That contract is not to be expanded upon unless agreed upon by all parties involved, and we agreed to nothing more than exposing your husband’s extramarital activities, which _you_ were already aware of. We will take our cheque and go, or if you insist on demeaning our services and our resources, I’ll happily involve the police.” He kind of wanted to, just to spite the woman.

“Oh, no, don’t be ridiculous! It was merely a passing fancy! No no, no need to get so upset, Mr Holmes! Here.” Wenmeiler went to a desk and took something out of it. As she came over to Sherlock with the cheque, he signalled to Scotty, who stood nearby to the desk, to do a bit of snooping, and kept Wenmeiler occupied with filling out the cheque properly. Scotty, used to sneaking around, was very subtle with her snooping and found…something. It wasn’t something she could take away, but he caught her taking a series of photographs with her phone. Evidence. Good girl, she had learned well.

 

The solicitation had him thinking that the Wenmeilers were in a dirty business of trafficking together. And Wenmeiler was more upset that her husband wasn’t sharing the best of the goods more than she was upset with his infidelity. Scotty left no sign of her rummaging as she slipped away from the desk and returned to her position. Sherlock took the cheque from Wenmeiler and smiled politely, shaking her hand.

“We’ll be in touch, Mrs Wenmeiler. Have a good day.”

“Oh, do be safe returning to London. Be a shame if you got waylaid by vandals.”

“I think we’re capable of taking care of ourselves, Mrs Wenmeiler. Goodbye.” He tucked the cheque into his pocket and led Scotty out of the house. Her words rang sour in his ears and he turned down six taxies and crossed the street twelve times to throw off suspected tails.

 

**:-:**

 

Eventually, Scotty dragged him into an alleyway and found a place to hide, and he called Mycroft.

_“What is it, Sherlock?”_

“Mycroft, I think we might need some help.”

 _“Is everything alright?”_ Trust his brother to know something wasn’t quite right. Sherlock looked around for any cameras, knowing his brother was probably watching them. There was a globe-camera up in the corner, and he nodded to it. Mycroft would not be the only one watching CCTV cameras right now, and that was absolutely okay with Sherlock.

“I don’t think so. My last client was...”                                                                    

_“Did she threaten you, Sherlock?”_

“She propositioned us both, solicitation, said…” Sherlock, who feared very little, had trouble getting the words out, but he repeated back to Mycroft what Wenmeiler had said to him.

_“Sherlock, I want you to do me a favour.”_

“Yes, Mycroft.”

 _“I want you to take Scotty and I want you to make your way to the Army Training Center at Pirbright. Show them my ID, I know you have it on you right now. Get onto that base and wait for my next orders. We’ll get you out of there safely, but don’t speak to anyone else, don’t accept help from anyone else, and whatever you do, do not let her out of your sight._ ” Mycroft sounded almost breathless, but stern. He was in fine form and probably giving orders to sixteen different people right this minute, _“Mrs Hudson would kill us both, and I don’t need any of my agents breathing fire down my neck for loosing track of her because I got careless. Matthew would reach beyond the grave and haunt me to my deathbed if anything happened to Scotty. To say nothing of her own agents.”_

“I’ll keep her safe, Mycroft. We’ll be in touch. Thank you.” He let out a shaky breath and pocketed his phone. Scotty was looking around. He squeezed her hand, causing her to jump, but when she realized it was just him, she relaxed.

“Well?”

“Go. Stay right with me, do _not_ let go of me.”

“Yeah. No problem.” She breathed. Sherlock got out of the alleyway and back onto the street. Scotty just about hugged him to stay close, and he looked up where Pirbright was in relation to their current location. Twenty-six minutes’ walk northwest of them.

“Act normal, stay with me.” He looked around and headed in the proper direction. Scotty was a surprisingly good actor, and despite her panic, remained outwardly calm. When they reached where Connaught Road turned right onto Billesden Road, he stayed straight. There was a footpath that paralleled the little canal, this would do to serve as a bit of a detour. It would ultimately get them where they were going, and they were unlikely to encounter anyone who wished them harm. As they left the pavement behind, Scotty looked at him.

“Where are we going?”

“ATC Pirbright.”

“That’s an Army facility! How are we supposed to get through the gates?”

“With this.” He showed her the pilfered ID. He suspected it was a specially-made duplicate for just this very thing, and was grateful in a way.

“This is your brother.”

“His face, my ID. Rather useful.”

“Rather useful!” Scotty laughed unsteadily.

 

Thirty minutes after talking to his brother, Sherlock saw the gates to ATC Pirbright, and heaved a sigh of relief. This close to safety. Approaching the gates with Scotty in tow, he handed over his brother’s ID.

“We’ve been expecting you, Mr Holmes. This way, sir.” The guards handed the ID back and let them through. A Land Rover in particular colours was waiting to take them to their rendezvous. It was a quiet, tense ride to an open span of maintained grass field, a sort of sports-pitch, where they waited fifteen minutes for whatever Mycroft had planned. A familiar sound reached his hearing and Sherlock looked out the window.

“What’s that?”

“Your ride’s here, sir.” The driver said politely, getting out and coming around to open the door for them. Sherlock got out first and held onto Scotty as they watched a helicopter circle and land on the grass. The door slid open as soon as the skids touched, opened by a waiting member of ground-crew, and Mycroft peeked out from the cockpit. Of _course_ his brother was in the cockpit. Heaving a sigh of relief, Sherlock tugged on Scotty’s hand and ran across the pitch. Scrambling into the chopper, he gave Scotty a boost and the door was closed again. Mycroft indicated harnesses and headsets for them, and Sherlock quickly put on both. Once they were ready, and he helped Scotty with her harness, Mycroft said something to the pilot and they took off again. Scotty grabbed his hand as a weightless feeling took over. But as the chopper leveled out and turned for London, she relaxed a bit. She didn’t let go of him, though, even as she leaned over to look out the window.

“Scotty!” He squeezed her hand, “Are you alright?”

 _“I’m…okay, I think.”_ Her voice was a little muffled over the headset, unsteady, but he didn’t press. He leaned in closer to her.

“You’re safe, Scotty. It’s alright now. No one is going to hurt you.”

_“Sorry, it’s just…”_

“You handled it perfectly. I’m very proud of you.” He smiled as she looked at him, eyes wide and wet.

_“I’m not for sale!”_

“And neither am I. Don’t worry, it’ll be taken care of soon.” He looked forward to his brother, who wasn’t looking at them right at the moment.

“Mycroft?”

_“We’re working on it right now.”_

“No stone unturned, no victims left behind. I want names, ages, and how many goons these monsters had working for them.”

_“You’ll get it, little brother. Stay out of this one, though, for your own sake. You found the nest, let us take it apart.”_

“Be my guest.” He sighed. “Wasn’t expecting a human trafficking ring when I took that case.”

 _“I wonder what her logic was for hiring you?”_ Scotty looked over at him, _“What was she thinking?”_

“Quite possibly that because I’m a young, inexperienced private investigator, I was a safe bet to keep my mouth shut. But she figured out rather quickly that there was a more…lucrative interest.” He looked out the window, “She didn’t seem to take us seriously when we threatened to involve the police.”

 _“She doesn’t know what we know, that we know people at New Scotland Yard. I mean, Brookwood is outside of London jurisdiction, but I guarantee you they know people who know people in Brookwood who would be very happy to hear about an underground trafficking ring in Brookwood.”_ Scotty shrugged, _“Bit of excitement for the locals.”_

“Bit of excitement indeed.” He chuckled. And a bit of excitement for other agencies, as well.

 

**:-:**

 

When they got back to London, Mycroft drove them back to MI6, where they stood for debriefing and a short scolding for getting themselves into trouble. Watching Scotty and Q reunite was a little heartbreaking and Sherlock looked at Mycroft as they watched the two younger Holmeses.

“He pulled surveillance duty?”

“As per usual. He was…devastated when he realized what had gone wrong. We have audio-feed of the incident from Scotty’s earpiece, which has been added to our evidence against the Wenmeilers.” Mycroft folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head, “Apparently Q modified Scotty’s headphones to operate as a two-way earpiece at some point recently, proto-typing for future projects.”

“Does she know that?”

“Yes she does.”

“Jesus, Mycroft. It wasn’t even me I was worried about, you know?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “I was thinking about Scotty, the whole time I thought of what she escaped all those months ago.”

“Don’t punish yourself, Sherlock. You did what we could not.” His brother did something unusual and put one hand on his shoulder.

“You know I hate doing your leg-work for you, at least warn me next time?”

“My apologies, little brother. Next time, I’ll keep you informed of any of my projects that may intersect with your own work.” Mycroft adjusted his shirt-cuffs, “I suspect it will happen again.”

“I would be shocked if it didn’t.” He rolled his eyes.

“I will try to refrain from repeating this morning’s misadventures in the future, however.”

“As will I.” He sighed and watched Scotty and Q. “John’s going to kill me in my sleep for this as soon as he finds out.”

“Perhaps saner minds will prevail?” Mycroft looked concerned. It was absolutely no secret that John Watson was prohibitively protective of Scotty, especially concerning case-work with Sherlock. Today’s mishap would put him in a fine mood, Sherlock wondered how he could ease the upset that was inevitable.

For the moment, he took relief in the younger generation of the family in a moment of quiet. As young as they were, he had never seen two more devoted partners. Some would shy at the family-ties between them, but the way Scotty and Q had inadvertently bonded, well before they realized they were relations, was sweet. They had so much in common, and Sherlock felt that they balanced each other properly. Not to mention they were a devastatingly effective team when set on the job.  How many wayward double-oh agents had those two pulled out of a tight spot with some fancy camera-work and a few spoken instructions? Momentarily, they were more or less babysitting James Bond and Alec Trevelyan, Scotty occasionally monitored Mycroft while _he_ was in the field. And when they got bored, they hacked. Seattle, Langley, Afghanistan, London. Whatever took their fancy.

* * *

 


	13. The Reichenbach Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the nearly-disastrous trafficking case, Scotty moves on with her life. But, as with all things, it's never quiet for long. And tragedy comes for the Holmes family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is some of BBC Sherlock canon. I absolutely despise TRF, writing it especially. The episode was beautifully heartbreaking and the acting was spot-on, but I just don't LIKE it at all. I have a headcanon that Sherlock jumped from Saint Bart's 4 May 2011 (that also happens to be canon-recognized Reichenbach Falls Day to commemorate the ACD canon show-down in the original "The Final Problem"), so that's the day things go to shit for Scotty & Co in my story.

* * *

Following the close brush with human traffickers in the course of a private case, Scotty looked into going to school and settled on a computer sciences program at a local university. She knew a bit about computers and a bit about coding and programming, it was a passion just as police-work was. And since she felt she was too young for law enforcement, computers it was. Most of her classes were basic level stuff, and she hated it. She knew how a computer worked, thanks, she didn’t need it spelt out for her. But, she attended classes faithfully. Her programming classes were more fun, by a long shot. Scotty spent her spare time working at MI6, and basically just tried to make a decent living. Her life wasn’t normal, her family wasn’t normal, and the friends she had were a very unusual, eclectic group.

 

Life was quiet, barring the occasional excitement of a case or a mission (the latter had a habit of going rather predictably sideways if 007 or 006 were involved), until about 2011. In May of that year, a scandal and tragedy rocked the Holmes family and those nearest and dearest to them, and they were left picking up pieces of lives that would never be the same again when the dust settled. Disgraced and humiliated, Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide on the morning of 4 May by jumping from the rooftop of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital in the City of London. It was bad enough that John Watson, Holmes’s long-time friend and partner, watched from the street; but it was made worse because, unbeknownst to either of the residents of Baker Street, they had been under surveillance elsewhere and Scotty and Q Holmes had watched the whole tragedy unfold from their control-room in MI6.

 

As soon as the gurney bearing the body of Sherlock Holmes was inside Saint Bart’s, and cameras had been queued to track the activity in the morgue, Scotty grabbed Q and ran. No apologies were made to anyone they ran past, and there was some muttering about a pair of mid-level Quartermasters behaving like a pair of children. People sometimes forgot that Scotty and Q had only been seventeen and nineteen when they were hired on by M, but the unlikely pair had worked their way up the ranks of MI6’s Research & Development Division and were two of the youngest ever to be named Quartermasters.

 

When they entered Mycroft Holmes’s office-suite at a sprint, they were stopped by his secretary.

“You can’t go in there, he’s busy.”

“The PM?”

“Yes. He’s not to be disturbed.” Anthea said in the same unaffected tone of voice she used with everyone she would rather not have anything to do with, which was nearly everyone besides Mycroft. Scotty glared at the woman who had never really known exactly what to do with Scotty, ignoring her protests as she threw open the door of her father’s MI6 office.

“This can’t _wait_ , Anthea.” She hissed, looking into the office. Sure enough, her father was busy.

“R? Q?” Her father looked around the Prime Minister, who in turn rounded on them to berate them for interrupting when they had clearly been instructed not to do so, and he got up from his desk when he caught the matching expressions on their faces. 

“What happened?”

“So sorry, sir. But something’s happened. At Saint Bart’s Hospital.”

“I’m sorry, Prime Minister, can you excuse me for a moment?”

“ _This_ is important, Mr Holmes, I think your minions can wait!” The Prime Minister snapped, irritated by several things. Scotty and Q exchanged a look and bristled. Scotty was nearly in tears at this point, she could only imagine she hadn’t scared a few agents and staff on their race to her father’s office.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but it’s…Captain Watson.” Scotty held out the tablet to her father, it was showing a replay of footage from the cameras they had on Saint Bart’s, taken from no fewer than three angles. “Your brother, sir?”

“My God.” He watched the footage play out of Sherlock falling, disappearing behind a skip-truck, and the scramble of personnel. John bolting across the street trying to reach Sherlock, getting hit by a cyclist and knocked down. Several emotions flashed across his face and smoothed over in passing. He handed the tablet back to her and looked at them, his expression stern but open. 

“Speak of this to no one else. I will submit a gag-order and NDA to the staff in your division. Has anyone else seen this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go to the Director, inform her of this. I will handle the rest of your division. Go.”

“Sir.” Scotty and Q took that dismissal and excused themselves. At the door, Scotty looked back. He had his back to the Prime Minister, focused on their retreat. He nodded and she took a deep breath. 

 

Once out of her father’s office, Scotty looked at Q and gulped. 

“Now what?”

“I guess we tell M?”

“Oh, Christ, I don’t want to! Q, you saw what I saw, right?”

“Every awful minute of it. Did…did Moriarty actually _shoot_ himself in the head?”

“I think so.”

“Jesus.” Q stopped Scotty and hugged her. “Don’t cry yet, just be strong a little longer.” Scotty wasn’t sure she could do it, but she could try. It was probably one of the worst things she had ever seen. And in five years, she had seen _a lot_ of awful things. Was Sherlock dead? Was he truly? Poor John!

 

By the time they made it to M’s office, Scotty had tears on her face and word was already circulating, speculation regarding what could have shaken the youngest Quartermasters. Scotty hoped Mycroft would act fast on that NDA and gag-order or else word was going to fly and get to other ears far too quickly. As soon as the door of M’s office had closed behind them, she leaned against it and covered her face. Q had the tablet and more or less stood in her way, blocking her from M’s immediate view.

“Q? Where’s R?”

“She’s behind me, ma’am. We…have news, ma’am. Something has happened at Saint Bart’s Hospital.”

“Any of ours involved?”

“Two, ma’am.”

“Damn it.” M was one of the only Directors Scotty had known who wasn’t afraid of cursing out loud. “Who was it?”

“N-not 007 or 006 this time, ma’am.” For once.

“R, come here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Scotty stepped out from behind Q and approached M’s desk, taking the tablet from Q as she passed him.

“What on earth happened out there?”

“It’s Sherlock, ma’am. And Watson.”

“Oh, no.” M took the tablet from Scotty. “They’re almost worse than the other two.”

“It’s…you should see, ma’am. 003 sent us to tell you, ma’am, he’s with the Prime Minister or he would have told you himself.”

“Oh, Sherlock. No.” She watched the damning footage, “There’s almost no way he could have survived that fall. Has anyone checked in on Watson yet?”

“No, ma’am. We just came up from R&D to tell my father. This just happened.”

“My God.” M sat down behind her desk. “How far has word of this gotten?”

“Word itself hasn’t gotten very far. Speculation is flying, ma’am. My father has suggested an NDA and a gag-order in R&D.”

“Good. Keep this between yourselves, go find Watson and bring him in as soon as you can. We can offer some immunity from the inevitable backlash.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“R, you stay. Q, can you do this by yourself?”

“I can, ma’am, but I don’t think I should leave R by herself right now.” Q retrieved the tablet. Scotty suspected that he was smart enough to know that she would do better with work to keep her occupied rather than sitting in an office worrying herself sick. Apparently, M knew this as well and simply nodded. As they left her office, M stopped them.

“In the interest of full disclosure, were Sherlock’s bio-trackers transmitting prior to the incident at Saint Bart’s?”

“Yes, ma’am. As recently as the moment he stepped off the roof, ma’am.”

“Perhaps it would be in our best interests to see if they are still transmitting.”

“But…the bio-trackers stop actively transmitting if the agent is deceased, ma’am. A standby signal won't give us anything except a location.”

“I know.” M looked at them steadily, “Just as a precaution, make sure they’re not still transmitting.”

“Yes’m.” Scotty looked at Q, wondering why M had suggested something like that. Why would they look into the bio-trackers of a deceased analyst? What good would it do any of them? Well, right now, they had other work to do. Returning to the Q-Division bullpen, they deflected any and all questions, archived and wiped the footage from the Saint Bart’s incident, and waited for orders. They also sent a ping to her uncle’s bio-trackers, per M’s unusual orders, and waited for some return. Either they would get a hit or they would get nothing.

 

Mycroft came for them an hour later and took them to Saint Bart’s. There, they met up with John and Lestrade. As they walked to the Morgue together, Scotty’s phone, synced back to her workstation at MI6, sounded an alert. She quickly retrieved her phone and looked at the information coming in. Unbelievably, they had gotten a hit on Sherlock’s bio-trackers. Was he still alive? Could it be possible what they had seen on the CCTV cameras had been faked? But…how? If that was true, then _how_? Scotty showed the result to Q, who made some sound and handed her phone to her father, who looked at the ping-back and smiled.

=“Good. Keep this between you. Tell no one.”= He warned in Russian, which neither John nor Lestrade spoke.

=“Not even John?”=

=“Not right away.”= He shook his head as John held the door of the prep-room for them. =“Wait until the asset has moved out of London.”=

=“Yes, sir.”= Scotty and Q nodded and she pocketed her phone again. John had already viewed and identified the body, it was the family’s turn now. Scotty had seen plenty of dead bodies in her lifetime, maybe more than any of her age-mates, and she knew what a dead body was supposed to look like after that kind of fall and impact. There were some bruising and road-rash abrasions on her uncle’s body, but…nothing else. There was evidence of broken ribs and fractures elsewhere on his body, but there was something slightly off about the markings. Scotty stood behind her father as he looked at the body and declared that yes, it was Sherlock Holmes.

“Can I see him?” Scotty _had_ to ask, it was one time in her life the body of the deceased was so important. She had, of course, seen her father’s body after his death but this was very different. Doctor Hooper hesitated, was fully prepared to give some excuse why she couldn’t, why she had technically already seen the body, but it was John who stepped up for her.

“Let her see him, Doctor Hooper. She’s family, it’s the least we can do. Poor girl saw it all happen, anyway.” Of course, he knew they’d seen it, he always seemed to know when they’d seen something on CCTV. It was obvious Hooper didn’t want to let anyone near Sherlock’s body but knew when to pick her fights. Taking the bio-scanner from her bag, Scotty found a pair of nitrile gloves and unzipped the body-bag the rest of the way after gloving up.

“What are you doing, R?”

“Looking for his bio-trackers. They’re probably not going to be transmitting, but if they’re still in place, the scanner can locate them.” She adjusted the frequency on the scanner and took her uncle’s hand in hers, turning it over to bare the pale, scarred skin. She knew where the bio-tracker was implanted, and she nodded when she got the activation pingback.

“Any luck?”

“It’s still in place.”

“Is it transmitting?”

“Not actively. The bio-tracker will continue transmitting a standby signal for another few hours. It’s a failsafe built into them to aid in location and retrieval from the field in the event an agent is killed in the line of duty.” She looked up and across the body at John, who stood on the other side of the shelf looking like his whole world had fallen apart. It kind of had. “It will transmit for upwards of two weeks until removed.”

“Why hasn’t it already been removed?”

“M has to give clearance to have the bio-trackers removed, and as my brother explicitly stated in his last will and testament that he had no interest in an autopsy following his death, the body will be returned to MI6 and the tracker will be removed by the medical staff there,” Mycroft told the perfect, tiny white lie. It was half-truth, half-lie.

“He was one of us, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Y’know, he used to tell me if I ever got the guts to go all the way, he’d be my handler?”

“Sherlock wanted to be a Quartermaster?” Not that Scotty was that surprised.

“No, he wanted to be _my_ Quartermaster. He said either of you two would be fine, but you’ve got assignments anyway, and…well…”

“He doesn’t trust you with anyone else.” Scotty smiled and looked down at her uncle, who was playing a very convincing game of Possum. She would have to ask him how he pulled it off, much later. “Sounds about right for him, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t suppose M would mind me stealing you from your assignment, do you?”

“Just say pretty please. She’ll be happy to let you have me.” Scotty wouldn’t mind being John’s Quartermaster at all. And she doubted Trevelyan would mind losing her to John, anyway. “But, that means you have to go all the way first.”

“Yeah, I guess I do.” John sniffled and reached out to take Sherlock’s hand in his. “Well, since I’m not running around London and elsewhere trying to keep this idiot out of trouble, I guess there’s nothing really keeping me from it, is there?”

“You know the requisites, Captain.” Mycroft intoned quietly. John raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at Mycroft. Yes, he was very much aware of the requisites to become a double-oh. The question that remained to be answered was, what number would he take when he finally got around to it? What would M give him? Scotty didn’t miss when John leaned down and kissed Sherlock, just briefly. It was sweet, heartbreaking, and mildly frightening.

 

Having completed the business they’d come to Saint Bart’s for, they left the hospital together. Mycroft took Lestrade back to The Met to face the music there, Scotty and Q took John back to MI6.

“M wants you in-house after what happened.”

“I bet she does.” John sighed and put an arm around Scotty, “You saw what I saw, right?”

“Every awful minute of it. I’m so sorry, John, I can’t begin to imagine how you feel.”

“Sick to my stomach. Like I missed something right in front of me.” He shook his head, “It just…it’s not something Sherlock would _do_. He’s almost too fond of himself for suicide, so…why?”

“Wouldn’t you jump if everyone thought you were a fraud? Could you wake up every morning knowing people thought you had lied and faked every single thing you’d ever claimed to have done?” Scotty hated putting it that way, considering her uncle wasn’t _quite_ dead, but it sure put things in perspective.

“He doubted me, Scotty. Just once, near the end, he doubted my loyalty.” John lowered his head as they flagged a passing taxi. “If my best friend doubted _me_ , for any reason, when the rest of the world was against me, I might do something just that drastic.”

“I’m sorry, John.” Scotty hugged him before she ducked into the taxi, “Come on, let’s get back to Vauxhall Cross.” Once John was in, she gave the driver the address and took John’s hand. It was a quiet, sombre drive from the hospital to MI6, and they went straight to M as soon as they arrived.  She sent John out on a training mission that would take approximately two weeks, Scotty was set on him as his handler, and it was right back to work. They sent John with 007 on what was essentially a fluff-mission, so it shouldn’t be that hard and yet…it could go anywhere. If anyone thought Scotty, Q, and John were a little more distracted than usual, the simple answer was “we are grieving, please give us our privacy”. People generally respected that and left them alone.

 

**:-:**

 

Two weeks later, Scotty, Q, and John were among several dozen people who turned out for the funeral of Sherlock Holmes. It was open-casket, of course, John stood guard by the casket, resplendent in a dark khaki No. 2 Parade dress uniform. The service was standard in length, John gave a beautiful eulogy, and after the service was over, they accompanied the casket to a small cemetery in Richmond-on-Thames. The graveside service was even shorter, and Scotty didn’t miss the team of grave-diggers standing a respectful distance away. They looked familiar and it wasn’t until they were walking away after the casket had been lowered but not covered that she understood _why_. That was Sherlock’s recovery-team, they would get him out of the grave, out of the cemetery, and on his way to wherever it was they were sending him. She had seen the roster, she knew every location, had memorized the schedule, but couldn’t remember his first stop right at the moment. It didn’t particularly matter, it was the fact that he was still alive to take his revenge on Jim Moriarty’s network that really mattered.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skyfall is next. Buckle up and hold onto your butts.  
> ::   
> ="text in these brackets is spoken Russian."=


	14. Skyfall: 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Routine is shaken up (no stirring here) in MI6 when 007 is declared dead during a sensitive mission. Scotty is left to pick up the pieces of Bond's untimely death while managing her remaining agents, but she has friends and family where it counts. Life is never quite boring, or very quiet, for Scotty, and more changes are on the horizon.

* * *

After the hype of the scandal surrounding Sherlock Holmes and the subsequent suicide of the disgraced detective had died down, it was back to business as usual for Scotty and her friends and family. She monitored John in the field as he worked his way towards double-oh status, and when both of his agency kills that gave him that status came back as top agents of Jim Moriarty’s organization, she wasn’t really that surprised: Moriarty’s right-hand lieutenant, Sebastian Moran; and former CIA and SIS operative Rosamund Victor. It had taken almost a year to get to them and trust John Watson to finish a job properly. He had experience in this particular field of service, had been with MI6 once several years ago.

 

**:-:**

 

Scotty was at her work-station in the R&D bullpen, tracking the movements of a few agents in different locations around the world, when she was aware of a presence behind her. One of them was her uncle, who was currently somewhere in South America. Her workspace was typically messy, but the chaos made sense to her and most of the tech scattered on her desk was actually for John. Little goodies for him to take out into the field on his next mission. She and Q had been building and testing new equipment at a breakneck pace, getting it back in one piece from their agents was kind of a problem. Or, in some cases, getting it back at all. Boxes of debris were acceptable if they were feeling particularly charitable.

“I’m not on that map, am I?” The agent behind her finally spoke up and Scotty almost cleared her desk.

“Oh, damn it, John! What have I told you about surprising me like that?” She looked over her shoulder, “Don’t _do_ that! Jesus, give me a heart-attack one of these days! Fuck you!”

“Oh, you don’t mean that, love.” He chuckled and folded his arms, “What’s on?”

“Making sure none of our field-agents make a mess we might need to get them out of anytime soon. So far, so good.”

“Any leads on Bond?”

“Istanbul, at the moment. He has Moneypenny and Ronson with him.”

“Uh oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Not going very well?”

“Could be going _better_ , but no one’s dead yet.”

“I suppose that’s a thing to be grateful for, isn’t it?”

“Where _he’s_ concerned? Very.” She looked sideways at her longtime friend. It was hard to believe that she had known John Watson for almost eight years. “Would I be wrong to assume I’ll be worried about you bringing back my tech in pieces anytime soon?”

“Oh, I’ll take better care of your toys than he does, dear.” John smiled and leaned over to kiss her, “If I break it, it’s probably not because I did something stupid on a mission, I just don’t get along with tech very nicely.”

“Which I why I build _your_ tech practically people-proof. Certainly dummy-proof.” She sniffled, “What are you doing down here?”

“I’m not allowed to visit?”

“I didn’t say that, but bad things tend to happen when agents come poking around.” She pulled up a new map. “You’re looking rather pleased with yourself.”

“Am I smiling?”

“Not quite.” She isolated a signal and sent out a ping-back request. “But you’ve obviously been to M. You got back from your last mission two days ago, you called when you got back, since then you’ve showered, shaved, which is a bit of a shame really, and by the looks of your suit I’d guess you went shopping with Anthea. That’s brand new and fits like a glove.”

“Bloody Holmes.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“You might have.”

“Figures.” She got the ping-back she’d requested and groaned. “Oh, damn it.”

“Who’s making waves in the no-wake zone?”

“006. Can you…hang on a second?” She patched into the com-link and pulled up the necessary cameras. “006, what the _hell_ are you doing?”

_“Nothing of consequence, dear.”_

“I can see you, you moron. Try again.” She entered a series of keystrokes into her tablet and waited, “You’re supposed to be in Bolivia, you know.”

_“I finished that job two days ago. Neat little tie-up. All gift-wrapped for the authorities who were interested.”_

“You blew up half a city-block as a fuck-you gesture when you _left_ , 006. Do that again and M will have your agency so fast your _head_ will spin.”

_“Only if you tell her it was me.”_

“She’s not an idiot, 006. I wouldn’t have to tell her anything and you know it. This is already measuring up to be a serious problem, so don’t fuck it up with your usual theatrics, do you mind?”

_“I make no promises. But if I get Patrice in my cross-hairs, can I pull the trigger?”_

“Good luck lining _that_ shot up.” She muttered, watching the feeds for Bond and Moneypenny. “Where are they?”

“Scotty?”

“What?”

“I…think we have a problem.” John squeezed her bicep tightly, pointing to a smaller screen. She pulled up the feed in question and stared at the footage for a moment.

“Oh shit. Shit. Fuck. 006, do you have eyes on?”

_“Are you seeing this?”_

“Unfortunately? If you get a clear shot, take it. Just…take it. Fucking hell. Damn it, Bond!” She scrambled her keyboard and started shouting orders at the other techs. “Someone get me M!”

“Ma’am?”

“Do not question me, just _do_ it! For fuck’s sake, people!” She snapped. “James! Can you hear me?”

_“R?”_

“I have you on tracking and CCTV. What happened?”

_“Agent down and injured. Ronson’s in bad shape. He’s…stable.”_

“Don’t get yourself killed, 007. Q would kill me.” She looked over her shoulder as the R&D techs scrambled. Her earpiece beeped and she winced. “Hang on a second, 007. Stay in my sights, will you?”

_“I make no promises, love.”_

“Not on the job, 007.” She muttered. All three of the agents she monitored had a terrible habit of dropping endearments both during mission and downtime at home. It was kind of annoying. Next to her, John chuckled. A couple of tech within earshot tried to look uninterested as they overheard that.

 

When things suddenly went south, Scotty had Trevelyan team up with Moneypenny and they got M patched into the surveillance and brought her up to date on the situation. It went from bad to worse when a hand-to-hand struggle atop a passenger-train took a nasty turn. Trying to get a bead on Patrice proved difficult and finally, Scotty had to do something she would honestly never forgive herself for doing in the first place. Moneypenny missed her shot, it went wide of the combatants and ricocheted harmlessly off the roof of the car behind Bond.

“006, take the shot.”

 _“I can’t! I’ll hit James!”_ Of course, he would object to shooting his best friend.

“Take. The. Shot. Now! That’s an order, 006.”

_“I can’t do it, R! I won’t!”_

“God damn it, 006, pull the fucking trigger right now!” All over the bullpen, people stopped whatever they were doing, those who hadn’t already stopped working.

“Your Quartermaster just gave you an order, 006. I’d suggest you pull that bloody trigger before that train is out of sight and we lose our shot. Literally.” John had patched into the com-link and leaned against her work-station.

_“Watson?”_

“That’s 008 to you, sir. Now pull the trigger. You’re a goddamn sniper, for fuck’s sake. Do it!”

 _“Jesus.”_ They heard the exhale, watched Trevelyan line up the shot of a lifetime. _“I’m so sorry, James. I’m so sorry.”_

_“Take the shot, Alec.”_

“Bloody hell.” Scotty kept her eyes on the screens until that final gunshot rang out over their earpieces, followed by two heartbreaking words spoken in a near whisper: “Agent. Down.”

“So. Which one of us gets to take the fall for this cock-up?” Scotty murmured after getting orders out for med-evac to retrieve Ronson. He probably wouldn’t make it home alive which was a bit of a shame, she’d kind of liked him.

“Flip for it?”

“If we’re lucky, she won’t debrief us until _after_ Alec gets back to London.”

“Next flight out of Istanbul with Moneypenny, suspension from field-assignment.”

“What about you?”

“Can’t fire me, can they?”

“Can’t give you another number, either.”

“Nope.”

“Shit.” Scotty pressed two fingers to her lips and closed her eyes. She and John Watson were more or less directly responsible for the death of MI6’s best agent. That did not sit very well.

 

Four and a half hours later, Scotty, John, and Q stood in M’s office with Alec Trevelyan and Eve Moneypenny. It wasn’t the first time she had stood in on a debrief, and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last, but it was one of the hardest. 006 was suspended from fieldwork temporarily, as was Moneypenny. John, likewise, would be waiting a bit longer for his first real mission as a double-oh, but when he finally got one, Scotty was lined up to be his Quartermaster. Q was transferred to look after 006, seeing as James Bond was by all accounts dead. Two agents dead, three reassigned, MI6 was having a rough time of things. After dismissal from MI6, Scotty rounded up the crew and they went to pack out Bond’s flat. Most of his stuff was put into storage, and sealing the boxes felt kind of permanent. Scotty just prayed that Sherlock would make it home alive, and sooner than later would be fantastic.

 

That night, Scotty went over the Istanbul cock-up in her head, wondering when she would stop seeing Bond plummeting from the bridge into the river, falling to his death every time she closed her eyes. She had barely gotten over watching Sherlock fall from Saint Bart’s when she and John ordered Trevelyan to pull the trigger after Moneypenny missed her shot.

“Stop thinking so hard.” Q murmured, rolling to lay his head on her shoulder, “It’s keeping me up.”

“Sorry.” She sighed and hugged the pillow tucked under her head and chest, “I keep replaying Alec’s shot. Patrice got away, now what?”

“We hunt him down and make him pay for what he did.”

“Yeah, good luck with that. You know M won’t give John the job, either.”

“Nope.” Q nuzzled the back of her neck, “Just try to sleep? Please?”

“I make no promises.” She got comfortable as he put an arm around her and pulled until she rolled onto her side, tugging until they were flush. He huffed, she knew he rolled his eyes at her.

“You’re impossible.”

“Yes I am. So what?”

“You’re my impossible.” He kissed her shoulder and tightened his arm. “Sleep.”

“Good night, Q.” She settled and dozed off. Tomorrow would be soon enough to worry about the future, whatever it held.

 

**:-:**

 

 

Six months later, Scotty and Q were home when word got to them of a bombing at MI6. M was in meetings with the head of Intelligence and Security Committee, and Mycroft was at his Whitehall offices, so they were at least safe. Scotty, on the other hand, had spent a few hours fighting a hacker who had gotten into M’s computer and hacked into MI6 remotely from there. She suspected the two incidents were linked, but how they were linked remained to be seen. Headquarters was subsequently moved from Vauxhall Cross and Scotty recalled every one of their double-ohs from the field. That included Trevelyan and John. They also had to inform M about what the contents of the missing hard-drive from the Istanbul job had been. Undercover NATO agents attached to numerous terrorist organizations around the world were at risk, and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot even Scotty and Q could do right now. Not without knowing exactly what they were up against, who was behind it. M introduced them to Gareth Mallory, who seemed genuinely surprised at how _young_ Scotty and Q were.

“What were your divisions?”

“Research & Development.”

“You were Quartermasters.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What happened to your department head?” Mallory looked at them.

“Uh…he didn’t survive the attack on MI6, R&D doesn’t _have_ a head right now, sir.”

“The Interim Director will have to name a replacement.”

“Wouldn’t _you_ be Interim Director, sir?” Scotty looked at Q. Mallory shook his head.

“Interim, perhaps, but there’s a chain of command in-tact at MI6 that I’m not about to interfere with.”

“I’m not leaving until the job’s done, Mallory, so you just sit down and let us do our jobs.” M snapped, “And I know exactly who will step up after I retire.”

“Why are you _waiting_?”

“Because the job’s not done and I’ll see you in hell if you think I’ll leave this agency in worse shape than it’s in right now.” M glared at the IASC head, who just sighed. His job, whatever it entailed, wasn’t going to be easy.

“I’ll be in touch.” Mallory excused himself.

“Oh, Mallory?”

“Yes, M?”

“In the interest of full disclosure, MI6 is a bit of a family business.” M looked a bit like Jadis when she was hunting mice. Deadly and mildly disinterested. "My Quartermasters are family to the Deputy Director of MI6, so tread lightly and take care how you speak their names.”

“They’re…” Mallory looked at Scotty and Q again and she would be damned if he didn’t suddenly turn white as a ghost. “Oh my god.”

“Good day to you, Mr Mallory.” M smiled tightly and as soon as the door had closed behind Mallory, Scotty turned to the woman who ran the organization she and Q had been working for the last six years.

“Sorry, M, but did you just threaten Colonel Mallory without actually naming my father in conversation?”

“I absolutely did. If that fancy pencil-pusher thinks he can take over this organization without so much as a “by your leave”, he’s got another thing coming. I have a job to finish, and I’ll be damned if I pass over Mycroft Holmes for an outsider.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Scotty had always appreciated M’s rather dry sense of humour, which seemed to show itself most in times of strife.

“And before this gets cocked up any further, I’m taking care of one more piece of business.” She took something from her desk and pushed two envelopes across to them. “Those are yours.”

“What are these?”

“Congratulations on becoming our youngest Chief Quartermaster, Q.”

“Oh my god! Q!”

“Hang on.” Q read the letter and looked over at Scotty’s. “What?”

“You…I mean…we’re…” Scotty trailed off and they traded letters. M had taken the power to replace Geoffrey Boothroyd out of anyone else’s hands and promoted Q to Chief Quartermaster of the Research & Development Division of MI6, and Scotty was new Deputy Chief Quartermaster. They had answered to their letter-nominations for years, that wasn’t going to change, but Scotty could think of a few people in their division who weren’t going to be very happy having to answer to such young superiors. There were techs in the division who had been working there almost as long as Scotty and Q had been alive. Never mind some of the agents. Most of the agents respected Scotty and Q, had no problem working with them, but there were always the sticklers.

“Oh my god.” Scotty folded her letter and put it in her pocket. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“I’ll try to keep this organization in the family. Good luck, you two.”

“Ma’am.”

“Dismissed.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Scotty and Q quietly took their leave of M’s office and as soon as they were out of earshot, Q grabbed Scotty and swung her off her feet.

“Did you see that?! Did that happen?!”

“We’re not _just_ Quartermasters, Q, we are THE Quartermasters!” She held on as he spun her around, “Oh my god, do you think we can actually do it? Can we run the division the way it should be?”

“We’ll do our damn best, won’t we?”

“Holy shit!” She dropped her head to her cousin’s shoulder, “Oh, that’s…holy shit!” Going back to their division, they got back to work. Over the course of the afternoon, Scotty and Q moved into adjacent offices and quietly took over a division they had more or less been running for three years. Boothroyd, Q’s predecessor, had been getting on in his years when the bombing happened and had spent time and effort grooming the two of them to take over for him. He said it was only right that MI6’s second most-vital division be headed up by a couple of hot-headed youngsters who knew a thing or two about the modern age and its technologies. Who better, he said, than a pair of hackers to run Research & Development and keep an eye on those pesky, sneaky double-ohs?

* * *

 


	15. Skyfall: MI6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further misadventures in Skyfall, Scotty has some hard work ahead. Can they stop the malicious game being played by a clever adversary before anyone else gets hurt or killed? Why does Raoul Silva want to see MI6 suffer? Who IS Raoul Silva?

The next morning, M sent Q to the National Gallery to meet one of the double-ohs, giving him the bare minimum of information. Scotty did some research of her own and requested a ping-back from a certain bio-tracker. When she got it, she quickly patched into the cameras in the exhibit where Q was meeting his agent. This was one reunion she _really_ wanted to see for herself. She patched into com-link as well to eavesdrop. This was going to be beautiful. She watched Q arrive at the Gallery first, sit down at the rendezvous, and settle in for a wait.

“Alright, Q, I’ve got you on cameras. Smile!” She watched for any sign of Q’s agent. Q rolled his eyes and looked at the nearest camera, flipping her off.

_“That’s voyeurism.”_

“Trust me, love. This is going to be well worth it. I promise.” At the same time she got the agent on cameras, the doors to the division’s bullpen crashed open. One of the double-ohs was back. Probably not John, he was a bit more subtle than that.

“R!” Ah. It was Trevelyan. Scotty rolled her eyes as her former charge made a standard boisterous entrance.

“Busy, 006.” She kept her focus on the screens, holding up one finger in warning, “Did you bring me your equipment back in one piece this time?”

“Afraid not, my love. So very sorry about that.”

“No you’re not, you Russian bastard.” She rubbed her forehead. “Box on the desk, you know the rules.”

“Yes’m.” She listened as Trevelyan made a requisite detour. “Brought you a little something else while I was at it. A little present from Serbia.”

“Serbia?” She looked over her shoulder, “What the hell were you doing in Serbia?”

“Recovery and extraction.”

“Which was why _you_ didn’t surface when I pulled the double-ohs from the field. You were deep-cover.”

“Yes, ma’am, I was. Can you forgive me?”

“Well, 006, that _kind_ of depends on what you brought back for me besides a box of broken tech. How much made it home?”

“Maybe a quarter of it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you…did you blow anything up?”

“Would you be awfully cross with me if I said yes?” Like a child expecting reprimand.

“MI6’s resident pyro, I should be grateful you come home at all sometimes.” She leaned her head back, “What was it this time, 006?”

“You actually let her talk to you like that?” Trevelyan’s unnamed company asked in a stage-whisper

“She’s the boss-lady. Only one higher than her are the Directors.” Trevelyan murmured back, “Around here, it’s Directors, Quartersmasters, Double-Oh Division, the rest of the lot.”

“You have to be kidding me. I leave for two years and I come back to find the Division being run by a couple of teenagers? Boothroyd would be rolling in his grave.”

“Boothroyd’s the one who picked us out, sir. And M was the one who promoted us, a sort of not-so-subtle fuck you gesture to the IASC big-wig.” Scotty looked over her shoulder a bit, “He’s not terrible, but he showed a bit too much interest in M’s job. Which is not up for taking by anyone besides the Deputy Director, and M told him as much.”

“Sorry I missed that show-down.”

“No, you’re actually not. It’s been hell the last forty-eight hours. My assigned agent is in…Islington right now. Domestic work.”

“You were assigned an agent?”

“More than one, thank you.”

“Aren’t you a little young for the job?”

“I'm the Deputy Chief Quartermaster.”

“You must be joking.”

“Why, because I'm not wearing a lab coat?”

“Because you have spots.”

“My complexion is hardly relevant.” She huffed, “But since you mentioned it, they’re freckles, not _spots_. Ta.”

“Your competence is.”

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency.”

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation.”

“Well, I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field.” She turned from the screens, not missing that she and Q had just parroted each other, word for damn word exactly. Scotty eyed up the man standing next to Trevelyan and calmly raised an eyebrow, despite being not-so-calm on the inside.

“Actually, I take that back. I _know_ I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pyjamas before my first cup of Early Gray than you can do in a _week_ in the field.” She sniffed. “I thought you were an agent, my mistake.” A couple of nearby techs made soft sounds of distress.

“Now, now, R, be nice to the poor man.” Trevelyan scolded good-naturedly, “He’s had a rough go of things.”

“Because he’s an utter moron. I did half of the workload for you, distributing the hits to my agents and sending them to their marks.” She folded her arms across her chest, studying the rather unkempt man standing next to Trevelyan. “My current agent took out two of the last remaining top-level operatives of Moriarty’s network six months ago. Where the hell have you been all this time?”

“Hiding?”

“Boy, Watson’s going to be _pissed_ when he sees you. He’s moved on.”

“Moved on?”

“Not moved _out_ , you moron. Moved on.” She rolled her eyes and turned back to the screen, tapping her earpiece. “How’s everything looking, Q?”

_“Rather splendidly just at the moment, R. Do you think M would mind if I took a bit of a holiday?”_

“After we clean up this latest mess? Not at all, Q. My love to James?”

_“Oh, of course! He was rather sorry you weren’t here.”_

“I’m sure he was.” She chuckled and watched as the unlikely pair shared a moment of intimacy in public. “Jesus Christ. Get a _room_ , you two!”

 _“Sorry, R!”_ Two voices chimed in tandem over Q’s com-link.

“You two aren’t sorry for anything. See you later, then.” Shaking her head, she cut the feed and sighed, rocking on her heels. It was quiet in the bullpen for a while, and she leaned her head back.

“So, the late, unlamented Sherlock Holmes is back from the dead, having never actually _been_ dead in the first place.”

“More or less.”

“It’s good to see you, S. I’m glad you’re back.” She smiled over her shoulder at her uncle.

“Likewise relieved to be home.” Sherlock studied her closely, “How on earth did you get yourself this far up the ladder?”

“I’ve been working in Research and Development for six years. How do you think I got here?”

“Boothroyd must’ve liked you.”

“Liked us enough to groom us as his replacements. I think he was hoping to retire. Things changed a bit when he died, and M fast-tracked our promotions before Mallory could do any damage.”

“Mallory?”

“Gareth Mallory, current Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee, Interim Director of MI6, former member of SAS and later AAC, retired from service at Lieutenant Colonel. Held for three months by the IRA in Northern Ireland as a POW. Never once gave up his secrets. Would’ve died for ‘em if they’d asked for it.” Scotty wasn’t the one who spit out Mallory’s statistics and history, as bad as she wanted to, but watching Sherlock do a legitimate double-take when he realized that it _was_ John Watson was so worth it. She chuckled and looked over her uncle’s shoulder at her smug double-oh.

“008. So much for Islington.”

“Not quite. It was a simple case, maybe a six if we were generous.” John chuckled and stood at ease, hands linked at the small of his back feet shoulder-width apart. He looked very sharp in a dark suit Scotty was convinced Anthea had gotten for him. His dress-code had predictably changed in the last few months, once he’d earned his double-oh status. He still wore denims and jumpers on occasion, but rarely. And almost never in MI6.

“Did you get the suspect?”

“Not yet, don’t have the warrants. Told Greg to keep me informed if they need a hand.”

“I’m guessing the bastard buggered out quick, then?”

“Must’ve. No sign of him in a three-mile radius. And believe me, I checked.” John looked over at Sherlock and grinned, not missing the absolutely gobsmacked expression on the boffin’s face.

“John Watson?” As if he wasn’t entirely certain it _was_ John, and not someone else who just happened to look like him. Say his brother Everett, or even his cocky cousin Iain. 

“Hello, Sherlock.” John’s expression smoothed into a sweet smile, “Home for good, are we?”

“I…hope so? May have to wait a bit to come out of hiding properly, but…well…”

“Bit of a drama queen, aren’t you?” John chuckled, “You look a bit not good.”

“May be a bit not good. How’s Baker Street?”

“Still standing. I still live there, Mycroft pays full rent on the place, leaves me the incidentals. Aren’t as many of those without you banging around the place, though.”

“How can you afford  it without a job?”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied, thanks.” John rolled his eyes, “Resurrected the Agency after you dropped off the map, partnered with Greg Lestrade for a while and ran cases as they came in. Not that many, people were a little wary of a pair of disgraced former private detectives connected to the name of Sherlock Holmes, but it served its purpose. Between that and working this joint, I’ve got enough to hold me for a long while.”

“You…work here?”

“More like I have an office here, I’m not here that often.” John shrugged a bit bashfully.

“We shoot for a 50/50 division of labour on the senior agents in the field, but we’re lucky if we can’t get a 15/85 or 20/80 ratio out of most of ‘em.” Scotty rocked on her heels. “My agents are the _worst_ about fair division of labour and time off duty.”

“Oh, please.”

“006, shut up.” She glared at Trevelyan, who blew her a kiss. “Between you, 007, and _that_ handsome idiot, my hands are full, thanks!”

“But I thought Q got 007?”

“Well, now that _he’s_ back from the dead, yes. Q’s welcome to 007, gives me time to devote to keeping the two of you pests out of trouble.” She narrowed her eyes at the pair of double-ohs and the “resurrected” analyst, “Although…I may have a problem on my hands.”

“What’s that, R?”

“Not that I can’t _handle_ you two, but if I recall, there was talk of making S a Quartermaster prior to the Moriarty scandal. We never quite got around to that, did we?” The three men before her shared a slightly puzzled look and turned to her with identical expressions.

“Ma’am?”

“We’re in the middle of a bit of a crisis right now, S, but we need all the help we can get down here and you’re one of the smartest men in London, probably in the fucking country.” She looked around  the buzzing bullpen. “There’s several vacant work-stations, take one of your choosing and we’ll bring you up to speed if you aren’t already familiar with the situation. I’ll see you two in my office. 006, scram.”

“Ma’am.” Trevelyan flipped her a cockeyed salute and disappeared. She went back to her office, John trailing behind her.

“Scotty, what are you doing?”

“Keeping you and Sherlock out of trouble. You can look after each other like you did before, and _I_ can look after both of you. Chain of command is going to go M, Q, me, you, Sherlock. That’s it, top to bottom.”

“Who’s…M?”

“For now, Director Mansfield retains her position, but if Interim Director Mallory has his way, she’ll retire with full honours. Worst case she gets herself offed in the middle of this crisis and we have to wait for Mallory to pull his head out of his arse and let H take M’s place like he’s supposed to.”

“Why do I keep forgetting you’re related to the Deputy Director?”

“You’re not the only one who does.” She smiled, “Take a seat.”

“Thanks.” He collapsed in one of the two chairs set for visitors and looked around her office. “Place is a bit…austere for your taste, isn’t it?”

“Haven’t had much of a chance to make myself at home in here, it’s barely been three days since we moved from Vauxhall Cross.” She shrugged. “Very long, bizarre three days.”

“That’s a good word for it, Jesus. One minute I’m in Morocco, the next I’m yanked from the field and grounded until further notice.”

“Only as long as it takes me to find you something to do.” She sniffled, “If you’re itching for work, you might try scratching at Mycroft’s door, he might have something for you.” She compiled what they had on the current situation and when Sherlock came in, she handed him the tablet.

“Is this everything?”

“Everything we’ve got. Q and I haven’t really had a chance to take a crack at the details, so if you get anything we missed, let me know.”

“Of course. So, now we wait?”

“Now we wait.”

“Boring.”

“I know, but we have no idea what we’re up against and it’s kind of scary.” She rubbed her forehead, taking her glasses off for a minute. She had just been handed a promotion a few days ago, the agency was still reeling from the Headquarters bombing, and they were fighting an enemy who seemed to know them better than they knew themselves. Scotty was exhausted and still putting forward full effort. She was the daughter of some of MI6’s finest, and the daughter of a very good homicide detective besides. Puzzles were her favourite thing, she loved picking out little details others missed or dismissed as insignificant. This was unnerving for her on the simple principle that someone was ready to meet MI6 on a playing-field they may not be ready for. But whoever this was, whatever they were after, she would see to it that any victory they enjoyed was one hard-won and bitter with disappointments because they didn’t get just precisely what they wanted from the game. She was seeing echoes of Jim Moriarty already, and that pissed her off. One psychopath was enough for any lifetime, thank you very much.

“R?”

“Gentlemen, I think it’s time to go back to my roots.” She looked at the pair sitting on the other side of her desk. “You’re dismissed.”

“Ma’am.” The pair saluted and once they were gone, Scotty went up to M’s office. She laid out her plans and told M she would be at home if anyone needed her. M sighed.

“Just be careful, R.”

“I always am, M.” Scotty smiled, a bit insincerely. Leaving the building, Scotty made her way home to Queens Grove. Scotty let herself into the quiet house and ran upstairs to the computer room, where she booted up her computers and started looking for clues. If she could make this a bit harder for someone else, she’d do whatever it took. She was a Quartermaster, but she knew a thing or two about computers most people did not. Who was it, what did they want, and why MI6?


	16. Skyfall: Quartermaster/Agent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva has plans for MI6, but there's one person in his way: Scotty Holmes. And she's not playing by the rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotty shows off a little bit here. She knows what she's doing, and she made herself a promise. No one would ever compromise her family or loved ones again. She couldn't do anything about Jim Moriarty, but she can sure as hell do something about Raoul Silva. And she's going to. You don't taunt a Quartermaster who was raised by double-oh agents and knows her way around a gun as well as any of her agents do, and expect her to play by the rules.

* * *

Less than twenty-four hours later, Scotty was racing out of MI6 headquarters and heading straight for Westminster. Q had already sent a message to Bill Tanner to get M out of the building. Raoul Silva had escaped holding and disappeared after hacking their system and taunting Q and Scotty with a message that said "Not such clever children." Bond was in close pursuit of Silva, determined to bring him to justice in retribution for the bombing and the death of several agents and employees at MI6, but they had a big problem. She had a name for the who, and an idea of the what, and the why wasn’t that hard to conclude. Silva reminded her of James Moriarty, in all of the wrong ways, and she had promised herself one thing as soon as his name came across her intel: She hadn’t been able to stop Moriarty, but she could sure as hell stop Silva. And she would. If she was the one who had to pull the trigger, she would stop him cold in his tracks.

 

Scotty reached the venue and looked for a way in. She was distracted by a black car pulling up at the kerb. The door flew open and she watched as Silva came out of the building, nonplussed and in no real hurry. Scotty had her Remington and Matthew Hudson’s P226, and her aim was a match to most of the double-ohs she monitored. Unshouldering the Remington, she racked it one-handed and tucked the stock against her shoulder, taking aim just ahead of Silva. She pulled the trigger once and shot out the back window of the getaway car, reloaded, and took aim again, shooting out the back tyres. By this point, Silva had gone face-down and his goons were looking for the shooter.

“I’ve got three rounds left and aim to put a professional sniper to shame! Silva, hands up!” She barked. Silva’s head snapped up and he looked for her. It was clear he didn’t recognize her, and she was wearing tactical fatigues, so he couldn’t tell if she was Q-Branch or field.

“Oh, they’re recruiting younger these days! You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” He sat up, chuckling. Young, yes, but not stupid. Scotty subtly looked for her cameras, she knew where every single one of them was.

_“Scotty, take the shot. For fuck’s sake!”_ Q’s voice in her ear didn’t startle her. She narrowed her eyes and sighted down the barrel of her Remington. Just at the corner of her vision, one of the goons made a move. In the time it took to blink, Scotty had shouldered the shotgun, pulled her pistol, taken aim, and pulled the trigger. The goon toppled with a bullet in his neck. Swinging her aim, Scotty took out the other one, right as he tried to run. Silva’s eyes went wide and he looked up at her.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“What’s going to stop me, Silva? Name one thing that’s going to stop me from killing you.”

“We have an audience. We’re on camera.”

“What _audience_?” She looked around. The street in either direction was deserted. “I don’t see anyone. And those cameras? Those are my cameras, I know exactly who’s watching us right now.”

“Would you shoot an unarmed man?”

“Absolutely. If he posed a threat to me and my loved ones? Oh, absolutely. Without hesitation.” She racked the P226, “You don’t understand, do you? Your grand plans for MI6 are going up in smoke. You are not getting a chance to make us suffer for your sins. Because I’m standing in your way.”

“A child! A girl! You think you can stop me?”

“I know I can stop you.”

“You’re a fool.”

“And you’re dead either way.” She levelled her aim, waiting for him to make his move. Either he would be smart about this or…oh, he was going the idiot route. Lunging to his feet, he came at her with his weapon drawn. So much for unarmed, not that Scotty had believed him for a minute. Scotty didn’t waste any time pulling the trigger. The single gun-shot echoed a bit and she took one step back as he toppled.

“R!”

“Hello, M.” She looked up at her boss, “Sorry about the mess.”

“Jesus.” M looked at the body, “Is he _dead_?”

“I think he is, ma’am.” Bond stepped around M and kicked Silva onto his back. He was dead alright, Scotty had gotten him right in the middle of the forehead. She hadn’t been aiming for him there, but she wasn’t complaining.

“I didn’t think Quartermasters were held to the same firearms training standards as agents.” Mallory piped up quietly, “Jesus Christ.”

“They’re not. But R is…special.” M stepped over the body with a sniff, “She was handling firearms from a young age, learned how to handle them properly and respect them. After all, she was raised by one of our best double-oh agents.”

“She _was_?”

“Her father was 007. One of our best, brightest, and kindest. Losing Matthew Hudson was a blow MI6 felt for months.”

“Remind me not to underestimate the Quartermasters!”

“They’ll remind you themselves, frequently.” M looked around, “Let’s get out of here, I’ve had enough for now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tanner headed for one of the cars parked along the kerb.

“We need to do something about Silva’s network.”

“Absolutely. After you, ma’am.”

“R, I’ll see you back at Headquarters for debriefing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Scotty waited until the car was out of sight and looked at Mallory, who had stayed behind.

“I don’t…suppose you need a ride anywhere, do you, R?”

“Well, I’m not _walking_ back to headquarters.”

“I can give you a lift, I’m…well, we’re going the same direction.”

“Thank you, sir.” Scotty picked up the kit-bag and tossed the shotgun inside, following Mallory to _his_ car. Just because she didn’t like him didn’t mean she couldn’t be nice. It was a quiet drive back to Headquarters.

“What’s on your mind, R?” Mallory asked after a while, watching her in the mirror. She shrugged.

“Wondering if the local figured out it was an Agency stand-off and left me alone. There were twenty cops in the area, most of them in earshot.”

“And several rounds were fired.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll handle that bit. Anyone at The Met I should talk to?”

“It may not be his exact division, but talk to Greg Lestrade.”

“Lestrade. Got it.” Mallory nodded and dropped her off at Headquarters. She shouldered the kit and looked at him.

“Where are you going, sir?”

“To make sure you’re not in trouble with The Met. Lestrade, you said?”

“Yeah. He’s in Homicide and Major Crimes. One of the best in the department. You’ll find him at the Victoria Street offices.”

“Roger that. Good luck with the debrief, I guess.” Mallory looked over his shoulder. “That was a risky thing you did today, R.”

“Someone had to do it.”

“Might as well be you?”

“Might as well.” She shrugged and shook hands with Mallory. “See you ‘round, Mallory.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Absolutely. Good luck with The Met.” Scotty stepped back from the car and let Mallory pull away before she went into Headquarters.

 

The first thing she did was report to M’s office, where she startled the Director’s poor assistant so badly the woman shrieked.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Vanessa.”

“R! Where have you been!”

“Taking care of business. Is she busy?”

“N-no! I shouldn’t imagine so.” Vanessa blinked at Scotty and tapped a button on her desk. “Ma’am? R’s here. Should I see her in?”

_“Yes, please, Vanessa. No need for the theatrics, thank you.”_

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” Vanessa gulped and let Scotty into the office.

“You may go, Vanessa.”

“Yes, ma’am. Shall I hold your calls?”

“And any callers, thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Vanessa bobbed a nervous salute and disappeared. Scotty didn’t smile, as bad as she wanted to.

“Well, R, what do you have to say for yourself?” M looked properly stern. A little shaken by the attack in Westminster, but still very composed.

“I apologise for nothing, M. Someone had to take care of Silva.”

“That kind of work is left to our field-agents for a reason, young lady.”

“Yes, ma’am. But, begging your pardon, ma’am, none of our agents seemed quite up to the task. Not for lack of honest effort, either.” She looked over at Bond, who stood nearby, “No offence.”

“None taken.”

“R.”    

“Yes, ma’am, sorry.” She cleared her throat. “In all fairness, ma’am, and in my own defence, you couldn’t honestly have expected someone with my legacy and training to sit still while the likes of Raoul Silva wrecked havoc on our Agency.”

“This was personal?”

“The code he used, ma’am? That was code Q and I built two years ago. I thought it looked familiar, but I couldn’t think of why. I never intended for it to be used against us by some freak on a power-trip looking for revenge. I had to take it back from him.”

“Well, thanks to your daring, he’s been quite effectively stopped and perhaps the remaining NATO agents will continue their work undisturbed.”

“Bring me that hard-drive and I’ll take care of it.” Scotty folded her hands against the small of her back. “Was there anything else, ma’am?”

“Not at the moment. Where is Mallory?”

“Gone to speak to The Met, ma’am, to ensure smooth sailing on their end.”

“How did you…”

“Pointed him in the direction of Greg Lestrade, ma’am.”

“Well done, R. It’s almost a bloody shame you’re a Quartermaster, you’re showing remarkable promise as a field-agent.”

“I’ve got the training, ma’am, but I like the job I have right now.”

“You’re rather good at it, I would hate to try replacing you.” M smiled, that dangerous smile Scotty saw when one of the boys was misbehaving.

“But you may not be the one replacing me, ma’am?”

“Well, my successor would have a bloody hell of a time trying to find someone half as good at your job. You’re a damn good Deputy Quartermaster.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re dismissed, R.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Scotty nodded and took her leave.

“You haven’t secretly been training up your replacement under our noses, have you, James?” M asked as Scotty reached the door.

“Not on purpose, ma’am.”

“Hmm. I don’t quite believe you.”

“No one ever said you had to believe us, ma’am.” Scotty looked over her shoulder, “Besides, I’m not the first or last choice to replace anyone in the Agency. I’m a Quartermaster.”

“With deadly aim and one kill under your belt.”

“I was raised by double-ohs, ma’am, what were you expecting?” She just smiled at M and left the office. M shook her head in fond exasperation as she walked away, and she was damn sure Bond was discretely chuckling.

 

When she got back to her office, the first thing she did was drop her kit off on Q’s desk.

“Missing anything?”

“Three rounds from the Remington and three from the P226, everything else is in-tact.”

“That’s a first.”

“I’m nice to the tech because I built it.” She set down the rest of her gear. “Wonder if they’ll put me on leave for this.”

“Why would they?”

“Because I did Bond’s job.”

“Somehow I don’t think he minds.” Q smiled and sorted through her kit. “How was it?”

“I love being in here, but out there…it’s kind of fun. I didn’t really panic, I didn’t freeze. I wasn’t afraid of Silva, I was…I don’t know what I was.”

“You were angry.”

“Determined.”

“You did a good thing today, R, kept a promise if I’m not mistaken.” That wasn’t Q, that was someone else, someone familiar. 

“John.” Scotty looked over her shoulder at her friend, who looked sharp in a dark suit. He must have seen the whole thing unfold.

“You’re not trying to steal my job, are you?”

“Nope!”

“Liar.” He smiled and held out one hand, “Come ‘ere, love.” Scotty obediently went to his side. He took her hands and pulled off the tactical gloves, inspecting her hands carefully. They were clean, of course.

“What are you doing?”

“Something I don’t do nearly enough of, if I’m completely honest. Hold still.” He tilted her head a bit and kissed her. If she whined, no one said anything.

“Well, that’s a proper kiss, isn’t it?” Q muttered, not at all upset. Maybe a bit jealous, but not upset.

“Oh, you’re not jealous, are you, Q?”

“Who said I was?”

“Cocky little shit.” John chuckled and looked at Scotty, one eyebrow raised, “Give me a minute, love.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Holy shit, if he was about to do that to Q, the poor kid had no idea what he was in for! She watched as John got Q to stop grumbling and showed him a thing or two. To be fair, she knew John was a bloody good kisser, he had taught Scotty for God’s sake! But watching him turn that skill on someone else was…she was already amped from the job, she was almost ashamed to admit that watching John kiss her partner silly was painfully arousing. Scotty giggled at the utterly gobsmacked expression on Q’s face when John finally let him go long enough to breathe.

“Oh shit.”

“Better, Quartermaster?”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Nice job, 008.” Scotty felt a bit smug about it, “Just about sent him offline, didn’t you?”

“Pity I didn’t manage to.” John just grinned, pleased and predatory.

“Help yourself, if you really want to chance it!” She made a broad gesture at her partner. Q had enough sense, and enough control over his uncooperative limbs, to stand up so he met John on equal ground.

“Bloody tall Holmeses.” John grumbled, “But it’s worth the effort, every bloody time.”

“Brace yourself, Q.” Scotty warned. Watching John stretch just that little bit to kiss Q properly was adorable. Q wasn’t _as_ tall as the rest of the family, so it wasn’t as much of a stretch, but John still rocked up on the balls of his feet. He liked doing that, Scotty had noticed, if he kissed someone standing up. Scotty knew exactly when Q went offline and smirked. There was something John did, some magic combination of teeth and suction that just…short-circuited everything. Scotty watched Q sort of fall into his chair, a boneless, satisfied mess.

“That worked.”

“You’re welcome.” John just ruffled Q’s hair and winked at Scotty, “Call me anytime.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Scotty let him go, waiting until he was out of the office to close the door.

“Holy shit.” Q was coming back online, slowly, “W-what was that?”

“That, my dear, was Three Continents Watson.” Scotty sat on the edge of Q’s desk, watching her partner, “How’s your head?”

“Has he always been that good?”

“Yep. Got that nickname in the Army. Knows his way around in the bedroom, knows how to make a partner feel special if it’s one night or one year.” Scotty sighed and ran her fingers through Q’s riotous curls. These days, someone else had the pleasure of taking Q to bed, but he always came to Scotty while Bond was in the field, and it was an arrangement that worked. Personally, Scotty didn’t sleep with anyone else, but she had never really wanted to. If someone _offered_ , and she trusted them? Maybe. Now, Bond had flirted a bit with her in the past, taken her to dinner when the fancy struck him. It got her used to other people in her circle, and really, she didn’t mind her double-ohs. Bond might have a bedroom reputation to rival John’s, but they were both gentlemen at heart and faithful.

“Damn, he’s good at that.”

“Yes, he is.” Scotty smiled, “You finish sorting my kit, I’ve got paperwork to finish.”

“Yep.”

“And you, if I’m not mistaken, have a holiday planned?”

“Yep.” Q looked at her, catching her by the hand, “Thanks, Scotty.”

“Like I told M, someone had to do it. And might as well’ve been me who took the shot.”

“Be careful, they’ll try to recruit you to the Double-Oh Division.”

“Not that interested. Dad was one, Mycroft is one now, but…I don’t know if I’d like the job that much. I love doing _this_.”

“And you’re good at it. Can you imagine what a pain in the arse it would be trying to replace you?”

“Why do you think I said no thanks?”

“Pest.”

“You knew that about me.” She kissed him on the cheek and went back to her office.

 

:-:

 

It was midnight before Scotty had a chance to leave. By then, she was the only person still in Q-Branch, having sent Q home with Bond and dismissed everyone else for the night. She was only aware of the time when she was aware of someone in her office. There were only a couple of people who would bother her, and two of them weren’t in the building. Either her father, Trevelyan, or even John. But when she looked up from her messy desk, it wasn’t any of them. It was…”Greg Lestrade?”

“Are you really that tired you can’t recognize me?”

“Jesus, what are you doing here?”

“Making sure you’re not overstaying.” The clever DI who kept her uncle occupied and harboured a long-standing crush on her father came around her desk, “What the hell are you still doing here? Yours is the only light on in this whole place.”

“Reports.”

“Yeah, I heard about your afternoon.” He rolled his eyes and got an arm around her shoulders, “Don’t know why you were so concerned you sicked a bloke from the IASC on us.”

“You know exactly why you got a visit from Gareth Mallory. I pulled a job that should have gone to one of our agents. Quartermasters don’t do field-work.”

“We watched you do it, Scotty, we watched you face down a maniac and pull the trigger on him. That took guts.”

“Silva reminded me of Moriarty, and I couldn’t stop Moriarty. But I could stop Silva, and I knew I could stop Silva, so I did.” She let him get her up and collected her work-bag.

“Yeah, you did. Come on, love, I’ll take you home.”

“Thanks, Greg. You’re a good friend.” She slid the strap over her shoulder and across her chest as she followed him out of Q-Branch.

“Yeah. Kinda wish I could be more than that sometimes, y’know?”

“Sorry?” She frowned and looked at him.

“Stupid, I know, but…Jesus, you Holmeses love playing hard-to-get. You and Q might be the two who don’t.”

“Oh!” She smiled, stifled a yawn, “Well, if you’re wanting more-than-friends from him, why not do the asking yourself?”

“Cause last time I asked, it didn’t end up going so well.”

“Greg, she forced your hand. More than once. No one deserves to be bullied into proposing.” She looked at him, “Please? You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever known, and Mycroft’s…fond is the wrong word. He respects you for putting up with Sherlock, loves you for putting up with me, loves you for being one of the smartest people we know who isn’t actually family to us to begin with. You’re kind, far too understanding, and very gifted.” Not to mention unfairly handsome. And really, Greg had looked after Scotty when Mycroft couldn’t. He had taken her drinking on her twenty-first birthday to celebrate that milestone and fed her tidbits on casework when he found something particularly interesting but they couldn’t get Sherlock to bite, the picky bastard.

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” Greg chuckled as they walked out of MI6 together, “Has anyone ever accused you of being almost too good at your job?”

“Maybe one or two times.” She shrugged and buttoned up her coat, “Besides, how many people can say they’re married to the Director of MI6? A lot of people wish they could be, but to have that for yourself?”

“Director?”

“He’s in line to replace M when she steps down. Which I suspect she’s going to do any day now. Probably once we’ve managed the Silva debacle.”

“Jesus Christ, is _that_ what he does?”

“Yep. Mycroft’s Deputy Director of MI6.”

“How does _that_ chain of command look?”

“M, Mycroft, Bill Tanner, Q, me, the rest of Q-Branch, Double-Oh Division, and the rest of them.”

“And you’re…what, exactly?”

“Deputy Quartermaster. I’m Q’s direct subordinate, but we’re partners.”

“Jesus Christ, MI6 is a family business! What about Sherlock?”

“He was one of mine, worked in Analytics.”

“What about John Watson?”

“Mhm. He was one of us a long time ago, and came back after 2011. Well, came back as a double-oh. He was training for field agency well before Moriarty made himself a nuisance, and after Sherlock’s fall, he kind of put his heart into it and worked harder. It kept him busy.”

“Jesus.”

“Yep.”

“Well…now what?”

“Your move, Inspector.” She smiled and waved down a passing cab, “After you.”

“Thanks.”

“Where to, folks?” The cabbie asked once she was in. 

“Baker Street?” Greg looked at her, and she shook her head.

“Nah.”

“Probably not Queens Grove, either?”

“Nope. Sent Q home with Bond, pretty sure they went back to Queens Grove.”

“Queensdale, then.” He gave the driver the address to her father’s home in Kensington.

:-:

It was a quiet drive to Kensington, and a short one. It usually was, especially at this time of night. When they got to the Queensdale house, Scotty paid the fare and gave Greg her keys.

“Can’t tell if he’s home or not.”

“He is. The light’s on.” Scotty looked over her shoulder, “He always leaves a light on if he’s home. He’s probably in his study.” Once they were inside, she locked up and reset the security system.

“Scotty?” Her father called from the study at the other end of the house. Scotty hung her gear and smiled as Greg did the same.

“Sorry about the hour, sir.” She called back, carrying her work-bag.

“I heard about your afternoon.”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” She headed upstairs to put her stuff down. “Pretty sure the whole agency knows about that, sir.”

“You let her talk to you like that?”

“She means no disrespect, Gregory.”

“Damn.” Greg headed for the study and she heard them speaking in low voices. Well, none of her business, was it? She’d planted the seed, time to let it take root if it could, do some growing. Setting up in her work-room, Scotty started disseminating all of the data from the last few days. She would let the archiving run overnight, she needed a break. Going back downstairs, she headed to the kitchen to get something to drink. She planned on getting some sleep, probably would be out for all of the next week at least if not the next three days, so she made sure she checked in with her father before she went back upstairs.

“Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Scotty. Well done. Thank you.”

“You know why I did that, sir.” She shrugged, “See you in a few days. ‘Night, Greg.”

“Good night, kiddo.” Greg watched her go, eyes narrow. Going upstairs, she drank her tea and went through her nightly ablutions before she climbed into bed and passed out.

* * *

 


	17. Skyfall: Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the chaos, a moment for reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A view of things from Mycroft's angle.

* * *

 As it got quiet in the Queensdale house he shared off and on with his daughter, and more frequently with his partner, Mycroft Holmes looked up at the ceiling. Scotty would sleep for several days at this rate, waking up at intervals for different needs before returning to her room. He couldn’t count how many times she had slept here after a hard mission or a long case with The Met. In which case, she came home with Greg Lestrade very much as she had tonight. But tonight, she hadn’t been working for The Met. He sighed and looked at the kind DI who looked after Scotty and Sherlock when he could not.

“I know what happened out there, Gregory.”

“Yeah, I know you do. But…Jesus. I didn’t think Quartermasters did work like that. Mycroft, you should have seen her face. She wasn’t afraid.” Lestrade shook his head, “I mean, there was no fear. Nothing. She was…angry.”

“She has every right to be. She wouldn’t be in her current position if not for Rodriguez.”

“Who?”

“This man.” He showed Lestrade what he had been working on when they returned. Tiago Rodriguez, aka Raoul Silva.

“Hey, that’s…um, that’s Raoul Silva, isn’t it?”

“That was an alias. His name was Tiago Rodriguez. He was one of ours.”

“Jesus Christ, what happened?”

“Everything is classified, and his records were wiped.”

“Of  course.”

“He was on station in China when he was captured. M deemed him too dangerous and gave him to the Chinese to detain.”

“Oh my god.” Lestrade always baulked a little when Mycroft shared bits of his work with him, despite working in similar fields. Mycroft was active in the field far less these days than he had been when Scotty had come to live with him, Scotty had pulled him from one or two close calls and all but begged him to move divisions. She had lost enough family already, she didn’t want to lose him, too.

“How do you _do_ it, Mycroft?”

“I moved to a different division. Scotty asked me to.”

“One close call too many?”

“There was debate in Q-Branch that someone else should have my roster.” He had been one of those himself, for a while, but Scotty was one of the best he knew at monitoring field-active agents. She had adopted James Bond and Alec Trevelyan very quickly, and undertaken monitoring for John Watson as well when he returned to them. Mycroft could take credit for bringing his daughter’s pen-pal back into MI6, but he suspected Watson would have found his way back to them eventually.

And now, well, MI6 was turning into a family business. Scotty and their cousin Q ran Q-Branch, Sherlock had moved from Analytics to Q-Branch as a Quartermaster, and Mycroft himself was in position to take over for Olivia Mansfield when she stepped down. He was debating settling down once he had taken over for Mansfield and things were established again at MI6.

He was also debating a strategic move of headquarters. Emergency Headquarters, located underground in City of London, was arranged as a temporary centre of operations, it had never been meant to host the agency indefinitely. And as soon as this latest ruckus had been cleared up, which his clever daughter seemed to have neatly in wrap-up already, he would look into moving Headquarters. Whitehall was ideal, there were several locations that would suit. He just had to make it happen. And he would. He would also ensure that MI6 remained relevant and essential.

“Go somewhere without me there, Holmes?” A cheerful inquiry reminded him that he wasn’t alone.

“I’m very sorry, Gregory.”

“Stop apologizing. The whole family’s been running yourselves ragged with this latest mess at MI6, I’m not that much of an idiot.” Lestrade just smiled and tugged on his hand, “Come on, you’ve been working long enough, you need a break. Bed.” Not that the man ever had to ask twice. Mycroft just smiled and wondered, briefly, what Scotty would think of having Lestrade as a step-father. He suspected very little of their rather well-established relationship would actually change. And that, in the end, might be for the best. It was nice to think that maybe he didn’t have to be alone, that there might be someone for him in this awful world. He had refrained from pursuing more than friendship with Lestrade until the man’s divorce had been settled, and even then he had been careful. What would happen, he wondered, when Sherlock made himself known to Lestrade? They had been rather good friends, he remembered. Worry about that tomorrow. There was time enough for those concerns another day.

Mycroft slept that night, or what was left of it, content that things in his world, and with the broader world in general, were momentarily at peace. There was always conflict somewhere, but where it mattered, it was calm.

:-:

Come morning, he found Lestrade in the kitchen making breakfast, John and Sherlock sitting at the breakfast-bar, chatting in quiet, eager voices. Pity he’d missed that revelation, it must have been a rather alarming one. He smiled and entered the kitchen quietly.

“Good morning.”

“’Morning, Mcyroft!” John smiled brightly, “Scotty went into recovery-mode?”

“She must have, or she would have joined us. My daughter’s post-mission habits are a bit unusual.”

“Actually, looking at the pattern of habits across family members and specific employment standards, she’s not exhibiting any truly unusual or concerning recovery tendencies.” The clever soldier just shrugged, his smile wise, “Two to three days is about standard for post-mission recovery-sleep.”

“She’s slept a week in recovery.” Sherlock muttered, mostly to his coffee, “More than once.”

“Wake up for a couple of hours, do something simple, and go back to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“That’s typical behaviour. I don’t see it _as_ much in the Q-Branch employees, more in the field agents.” John chuckled, “We’re all terrible about it. Downtime means nothing, it’s a fluid concept we make do with when it occurs to us that we need to take a break.”

“Some more than others.” Lestrade pointed out, turning from the range to give Mycroft a meaningful glare.

Once breakfast was ready, Mycroft handed over empty plates to be set. As each serving was plated, it was set down at the table. As if on cue, Scotty made her appearance. She was half-awake and in full post-mission recovery-mode, moving in slow, semi-automatic motions. They all knew how to behave around her and simply went about their business as usual.

“I need that fucking hard-drive.” She muttered about halfway through, and they all looked at her.

“Hard-drive?”

“The NATO hard-drive, the one Silva was using. I need it.”

“Oh.” John tapped her on the hand. “It’s in your work-bag, love. Q packed it for you before he left last night, it should be upstairs.”

“Oh. He did that?”

“I gave it to him.”

“Can you…double-check for me after breakfast?”

“I’d love to.” He just smiled at her, “Finish your breakfast, you need the calories.” Watching John with Scotty was something unique and rather sweet. There was something between them that was more than friends but less than lovers, and it was fascinating to watch her open up under the former Army medic’s careful attention. Content that she wasn’t missing vital evidence, Scotty continued to eat in silence following her bizarre but typical somnolent outburst. After clearing her plate, she helped with wash-up before John dismissed her back upstairs and went with her to make sure she went back to bed, and to locate that hard-drive for her. She would set it up for download and dissemination when she woke up again in a few hours.

Mycroft returned to Emergency Headquarters to continue his processing work, but the rest of them stayed behind a bit longer. There was no sign of Q, but the bullpen was active and the testing stations were manned. It was busy but quiet, and he suspected plenty of work was being done. Going to his office, Mycroft made progress on his workload.

His morning was spent on paperwork, he spent the afternoon location-scouting for somewhere to move Headquarters. The Old War Office Building was one promising potential. He spoke to Tanner, Mansfield, and Mallory about the future of MI6, not just moving Headquarters but the transition of leadership in the wake of the Silva/Rodriguez scandal and maintaining the relevance of the organization as a whole.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter titles are the names of cities or places visited by the characters, and the names of specific episodes/films from the involved franchises in later chapters.
> 
> I apologize for any weirdness, this story pretty much wrote itself. I didn't do much more than plant the idea. And this is just ONE version of the story! The characters took control and now...here we are. Certain characters kind of just dropped in on the story and stuck around. *cough* Everett Ross, lookin' at you, buddy.


End file.
